


Aurora

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heaven and Hell are two large companies but recently Hell has risen to power faster than Google. What happens when one of Heaven's employees refuses to bow to his new managers and is sent to Earth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nanowrimo many moons ago.

Chester is sitting at his desk when he hears the news. Probably it’s nothing more than office gossip, but there’s always a chance that it isn’t. And just the possibility of it makes work even more tedious. It’s hard to focus and he blinks once, twice, three times at his monitor before turning it off and rubbing his eyes.

 

He’s exhausted. Mostly that’s because of all the suicides he’s had to sift through lately. Not all suicide victims are sinners, and it’s picking which ones aren’t which leaves him with a pounding headache. What is it with humans and the urge to destroy everything they possibly can, even if it’s themselves?

 

He almost hopes that the rumours are true, maybe then he’ll be able to get out of this dead end job he has somehow gotten himself stuck in. When he went for the interview – in his best Armani suit with a tie that matches the shade of his wings and makes him look drop dead gorgeous – he was told that the job had great prospects. However, that turned out to be a pile of crap.

 

So far, all he’d done was sit in a cube farm with other Angels who’d been suckered into taking the job and filed. His job was to sort through the souls passing through into the afterlife, registering them and making sure they make it to the correct place. Which, quite frankly, was a fucking snore-fest.

 

Being an Angel isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. At least he works in Heaven, though. Because he’s heard stories about the way management treats the Angels in Hell - and it’s nothing short of slave labour.

 

He takes a deep breath and goes to turn his monitor back on when his boss, Jason, sticks his head around the entrance to his cubicle.

 

“Hi,” he chirps cheerfully, his wings fluttering a little behind him. Jason Bryce has worked here since, probably, the beginning of the time. At seven-hundred and fifty years-old, Jason is twice Chester’s age physically, but the way he gets excited over things like new coffee filters on a morning or self-sticking labels, he’s only half of Chester’s age mentally.

 

“Hi,” Chester mumbles and tries not to bristle.

 

“Staff meeting,” Jason says, smiling widely, “Good news, though, don’t worry.”

 

He’s gone before Chester can even make a snide remark. All he can think is that maybe that office gossip is more than just a rumour.

 

Maybe Heaven is really being bought out by Hell.

 

He sighs and counts to ten the way his therapist tells him to before getting to his feet and strolling towards the conference room.

 

***

 

Jason stands at the head of the long, mahogany table steepling his fingers and welcoming everybody as they enter. Chester takes a seat near the door and stares around the room blankly.

 

“Thank you, everybody, for coming,” Jason says as the final Angel makes it through the door, “I’m just here to update you all on the company’s recent…financial difficulties.”

 

For dinner, Chester wonders, should I have the microwavable meal that’s been sitting in my refrigerator for a month, or should I order in?

 

“As you all know, Hell has flourished recently with the up-rise in crime and war amongst the humans. Suicide bombers, as we all know, are a controversial issue but Hell have taken full responsibility for them.”

 

Somebody goes to argue and Jason shushes them patiently, interrupting Chester’s train of thought. Should he watch a movie or work on the records he promised management by next week?

 

“As I was saying; an up-rise in crime and such has led to Hell’s business booming and Heaven’s waning somewhat. However!” He grins, “There is a solution! The CEO’s of Heaven are busy signing contracts with Hell about perhaps selling the company to them and allowing us all to keep our jobs!”

 

Should he drink wine or – hey, wait, what?

 

“So we’d be working for Hell?” He frowns.

 

Jason looks a little startled but pulls it together quickly, nodding, “Yes. But for the same rate of pay and you wouldn’t have to relocate.”

 

“But we’d be working for Hell…”

 

“Is there a problem, Chester?”

 

“Yes, there is! I am  _not_  working for them. I don’t give a crap if I’m doing the same job for the same rate of pay or if I don’t have to move. I won’t work for those guys.”

 

Michelle from three cubicles away from Chester laughs, “Yeah Jason, nobody is going to go along with this.”

 

Jason’s face darkens and his wings flex just a little bit, “Talks are already under way,” He says, “I’m afraid it’s a case of their way or the highway. This is out of my hands. They think this is what’s best for Heaven, and for all of its employees.”

 

Their way or the highway?

 

“Angels can either embrace this change and cooperate with the new management, or they can leave. They can be cast down to Earth.”

 

Chester says nothing. He sits in silence and thinks of Lucifer.

 

***

 

Brad sits in front of the TV and switches channels so fast it could cause an epileptic fit. His friends say he’s passive aggressive. As he stabs at the remote violently with his thumb he supposes that’s true.

 

Today has just sucked. Whoever led him to believe that the whole rock-star life style was a glamorous and fun thing laced with cocaine, parties and girls is a fucking asshole and he doesn’t think he’d save them from a burning building.

 

Brad waits tables at the Hilton Hotel on South Grand Avenue in the centre of Los Angeles. Another job he was lied to about. His – soon to be dead – best friend Mike has worked there for years and pretty much got him the job promising him it was a great way to kill time between band practices.

 

The job, however, sucks. Much like their band. Xero is a mix of hip-hop and metal to create something new. But, really, it isn’t all that new and their sound isn’t original enough to get many gigs, let alone a record deal. But they practice as many times a week as they can, just in case.

 

Brad, he’s the guitarist. Mike is the emcee and lyricist. He likes to think he is also the lead singer, but can’t sing a note in tune. The rest of the band is made up by their bored friends who think that being in a band is a good way to make money without having to do very much work.

 

It’s been another day of arguing in the kitchen of the Hilton with Mike about how they are in desperate need of a real vocalist. Mike acted hurt and gave him the biggest puppy dog eyes Brad has ever seen on a human being. He’s half Japanese and his eyes are almost black which makes him look like a kicked dog when he wants his own way.

 

It’s hard to resist. But today Brad just rolled his eyes, walked away.

 

That was at one in the afternoon and their shifts lasted until eight, in which time Mike refused to speak a word to him.

 

So here he is. Home alone on a Saturday night with cheap beer that tastes pretty much the same as motor oil and reality TV. He puts the news on instead, dumping the remote on the coffee table in front of him. Surely the sorry state of the world will make him feel better about his own shitty life.

 

He sighs heavily when he realises he’s missed pretty much the entire bulletin and thinks, well damn,  _everything_  is going to shit.

 

“And finally we’d like to remind viewers about the meteor shower this evening. Turn out your lights and get on the streets tonight at midnight. Cast your eyes to the heavens and you might just catch the glimpse of a shooting star. That’s all from us here at Channel Six news. Good night.”

 

Brad couldn’t give a shit about space or what lies beyond or any of that crap. He doesn’t get why people can’t just be content with the fact that they’re born, they live and then they die.

 

But since he can’t think of anything better to do with his time he gets up and goes outside.

 

The beach is a stone’s throw away from his house. It’s his favourite place to be. Mike says that’s such a girl’s thing to say but Brad couldn’t care less.

 

He and Mike have been friends since they met in high school. Their childhood dream to be big famous rock-stars had been born then. They convinced themselves that college wasn’t a necessity when you were going to play gigs for your entire life, and so they didn’t go. And now they have nothing.

 

All the people he knows are graduating this year and despite his general hatred of academia he feels a little left out. Which has really pissed Mike off for some unknown reason.

 

He sighs and takes off his shoes, holding them as he trudges over the warm sand toward the ocean. He stands with his eyes on the sky for a long time before he sees one – a streak of light shooting across the sky. Once he sees one he sees several as the shower begins.

 

It’s beautiful, he has to admit. Breathtaking. And for a little while he forgets all about the things he was wallowing in previously. Suddenly he can’t bring himself to care.

 

Which makes him feel kind of gay. But who cares anyway?

 

His cheesy ‘life is so good right now’ thoughts are just beginning when there is a gigantic splash and he snaps out of it. Something fell. Into the ocean. He stares at the sky curiously. It can’t be a meteor; this shower happened billions of years ago and they’re only just seeing it now.

 

He steps closer to where the sea washes against the shore and freezes when a figure stands up in the water. Their head is bowed so Brad can’t make out their features. But his breath is taken away when the figure straightens up, flexing beautiful white wings out behind them.

 

***

 

As Chester staggers gracelessly through the water he shivers. He’s freezing cold. And just as he is about to curse Jason and any Angels he may be related to his foot gets tangled in something on the sand beneath him and he falls, yet again, face first into the shallow water.

 

Picking himself up, he flexes and relaxes his wings quickly, shaking the water from them. He stomps toward the shore and only then does he notice the human standing there, watching him.

 

Crap.

 

Now what?

 

They stand completely still, staring at each other. He takes another tentative step forward and the human on the beach backs away. Chester stops walking and waits for the human to do the same before continuing out of the water.

 

The dry sand sticks to his bare feet and he sighs, irritably. The human just stares at him open-mouthed. Chester glares at him, “What?”

 

“I...I...you...what a-are you?”

 

“Wet and freezing my wings off. You?”

 

The human says nothing.

 

For a fleeting moment Chester wishes he’d just agreed to work for Hell. Shakes himself out of it, though, and steps closer to the shell-shocked human. “Could you get me a towel or something?”

 

“Are you an Angel?”

 

“Not anymore.”

 

***

 

The human, his name is Brad Delson. Brad Delson doesn’t shut up when he’s nervous. He talks about how his friends won’t believe him and how Mike will think he’s just tripping on acid again. And that’s Mike as in Mike Shinoda, Brad explains as if Chester would know the guy from Adam.

 

Brad Delson asks ridiculous questions and doesn’t give Chester any time to answer them. Including one about some mousse dessert called Angel Delight and does it really delight the Angels?

 

He leads Chester away from the beach toward his house where he fumbles to open the door, dropping his key four times. It’s hard to stay patient but somehow Chester resists the urge to just kick the door down and waits for Brad to open it.

 

Once inside it becomes apparent that Brad Delson really likes take-away and beer if the cartons and bottles littering every flat surface are anything to go by. He continues to chatter nervously until he notices the unimpressed expression on Chester’s face.

 

“Sorry,” he says, “I’ve n-never met an Angel before.”

 

“We’re not that great,” Chester mutters, “Do you have a hairdryer?”

 

Brad stares at him blankly for some time before scurrying upstairs to the bedroom with the Angel in tow. He digs through his closet, pulling out an expensive hairdryer with twenty different functions, blushing when Chester raises an eyebrow.

 

“Need to take care of my hair,” he says, running a hand over the mass of curls on his head which have formed an afro.

 

Brad plugs it in to a socket near a vanity which is covered in empty cologne bottles and crumpled pieces of paper. He pulls out a little stool for Chester to sit on and steps back. He watches the Angel fiddle with the dryer until he is satisfied with the settings before flexing his wings and turning it onto them.

 

“You blow dry your wings?”

 

Chester, he’s busy twisting awkwardly to try and reach the backs of them and growls, “No.” He twists around the other way and drops the hairdryer and curses.

 

“Would you like some help?”

 

Chester doesn’t reply, just picks up the hairdryer and sits staring sullenly at his reflection. Brad takes it from him and dries the back of his wings slowly.

 

“Thanks,” the Angel mumbles.

 

“No problem.” Brad yells over the noise of the hairdryer, “You haven’t told me why you’re here. On Earth. I mean. Where do Angels come from?”

 

“Heaven or Hell. It just depends what you prefer – being beaten and bossed around or sitting in an office with a bad view.” Chester pauses to fix his hair, twisting it into neat, blonde spikes. “I er, I wouldn’t cooperate so they kicked me out.”

 

“Like Lucifer.”

 

Chester bristles and snaps, “Nothing like fucking Lucifer.”

 

An awkward silence settles until Brad clears his through and turns off the hairdryer. He meets Chester’s eyes in the mirror and asks, “Are you staying? On Earth I mean. Or here, if you want. You can stay here.”

 

Chester looks tired, suddenly. He looks endlessly weary. The Angel stares at his hands in his lap and nods, “I’m stuck here now.”

 

“It’s not so bad here,” Brad tries, “We have nice weather.” He takes a seat on the bed behind the vanity and watches Chester brush invisible lint from his black jeans. “Were you the only one sent here?”

 

“No.”

 

“So then you’re not alone, right? There are other Angels here with you.”

 

“There have always been Angels on Earth,” Chester says, “You just can’t see them.”

 

This is news to Brad, and he waits for an explanation, but he doesn’t get one. There are so many questions he wants to ask – like why Chester was kicked out of Heaven, what he’s going to do, if he can ever return – but he stays quiet.

 

“You really don’t mind me staying here?”

 

Brad shakes his head, “I have a spare room you can sleep in. Clothes you can borrow. Food you can eat. Do Angels eat? Of course you guys eat. How else would you…”

 

He trails off when Chester gets to his feet and leaves the room. Brad follows him out to the hallway and frowns slightly when the Angel immediately locates the guest bedroom and disappears inside, the door closing with a soft click.

 

Another question he wants to ask is about Angel PMS. But he goes to sleep instead.

 

***

 

Chester can’t sleep. He had always prided himself as an adaptable person but now, faced with the prospect of being stuck on Earth forever, he’s not so sure. He lies completely still and stares blankly at the wall.

 

Brad is nice enough. At least he hasn’t tried to kill him yet. He’s given him a place to stay, he’s helped him dry his wings. Most of all, he has accepted him. Even throughout all of the stupid questions Brad never once got angry or judgmental.

 

Knowing he isn’t the only one in this situation should make him feel a little better but it doesn’t. He is starting to think he should have maybe just gone along with it all and worked for the management in Hell. Maybe then he’d be in his own bed able to sleep without fears of tomorrow.

 

He doesn’t realise it at first, but he’s crying. And once he starts he just can’t seem to stop.


	2. Two

It’s Brad’s day off but he wakes up at the crack of dawn. Something is wrong, he knows it. He creeps along the hallway to check on Chester, barely surprised to find the room empty. He swallows down a wave of panic at the idea of anybody finding the Angel, hurting him.

 

Once dressed in the clothes he wore yesterday he hurries outside, heading instinctively for the beach. The sun is rising as he arrives, spotting Chester instantly. He is standing at the shore, the sea lapping at his feet. His wings hang behind him, limp.

 

Brad silently comes to stand beside him, watching the sun rise.

 

“I thought you’d left.”

 

“I almost did.”

 

“You have to be careful. If people see you…not everybody would respect you.”

 

Chester casts Brad a sidelong glance “You respect me?”

 

“How can I not? You’re like, a worker for God. Of course I respect that.”

 

“My boss isn’t God. He thinks he is. But he isn’t.”

 

“So where is God?”

 

“There’s no such thing as God. Just upper management. CEO’s who have now retired to Greener Pastures.”

 

“Angels retire?”

 

“If you’re high enough up in the corporate chain you can do what ever you like.”

 

They stand in silence for a long time, the sea breeze rustling the feathers of Chester’s wings. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. Brad tries not to stare but it’s hard – everything about the Angel is captivating. He doesn’t look the way Brad had always been taught – he does not wear a robe and he doesn’t seem particularly pure – but he is beautiful.

 

There’s a word on the tip of his tongue that fits Chester perfectly, but he can’t seem to find it.

 

“So,” Brad murmurs, “Your wings…”

 

“What about them?”

 

“They’re a dead give away.”

 

Chester rolls his eyes, “I can appear completely human if I want to.”

 

“If you’re staying here you’re going to have to.”

 

“Don’t you think I know that?” Chester snaps, sitting down on the sand.

 

Brad wants to say sorry. Anything. But instead he just stands over the Angel quietly.

 

“I know I’m not alone here,” Chester says, “that there are Guardian Angels everywhere. But I’m not supposed to be here. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He sighs deeply and rests his head on his knees, “I don’t really have anything against humans. But I’ve seen what your people do to each other. I don’t want to be a part of that.”

 

Brad sits beside him, watching him closely, “Not all of us are like that.  _I’m_  not like that. You’re safe here. Even if you don’t feel like you are.”

 

Chester turns his head to look at him and nods slowly, “Yeah. Okay.”

 

Now, with the Angel curled up beside him, it’s easy to remember the word that describes him perfectly.

 

Fragile. Chester is endlessly fragile.

 

***

 

When they get home, Chester heads straight for the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards and yelling to Brad that he has no fucking food and that he’s a pathetic excuse for a bachelor.

 

Brad just laughs and heads for the front door when the bell rings. Only when he has opened it and is faced with Mike does he realise that fuck, there is an Angel in his kitchen.

 

“Oh hi!” He says loudly, stepping out onto the stoop and closing the door behind him.

 

Mike raises an eyebrow and stares, “Um…hi. Can I come in?”

 

“The place is a mess.”

 

“The place is  _always_  a mess. Do you have a chick in there Brad?” He grins playfully, “Oooh you  _do._  Is she hot? Let me see!”

 

He pushes Brad out of the way and lets himself in, peering around curiously. A noise in the kitchen leads him there and he stops, frozen in the door way. “Er…”

 

Brad follows slowly, dreading having to explain himself. Dreading having to tell Mike everything he’s learned so far. But when he stands beside his friend all he is faced with is a shirtless Chester with a distinct lack of wings, leaning casually against the counter eating dry toast.

 

“Hey,” Chester smiles, putting down his plate and brushing the crumbs off his hands. He holds out a hand to shake Mike’s, “I’m Chester.”

 

“I’m Mike.”

 

Brad rubs his eyes tiredly, “You can have butter with that toast, you know.”

 

“It’s expired. I think you need to go grocery shopping.”

 

Mike turns to Brad, eyes wide and confused, then drags him into the living room. “I didn’t know you were gay,” he whispers urgently.

 

“I’m not.”

 

“So why is there a topless man having breakfast in your kitchen at nine in the morning?”

 

He should just tell Mike the truth. But the whole story seems far fetched even to Brad. So instead he says, “I’m experimenting…”

 

“Experimenting?”

 

“Dude, try talking an octave lower. Yes, experimenting. I went out last night, met Chester, aaand now he’s here.”

 

“Where did you meet?”

 

“A bar.”

 

“Which bar?”

 

“For fucks sake, Mike, I was  _drunk_  and I can’t remember.”

 

“What do you know about him?”

 

From the doorway of the kitchen Chester clears his throat. He has both hands wrapped around a cup of coffee and an amused expression on his face, “I do have ears you know.”

 

Mike blushes and stumbles over his words, “I…um…so…you and Brad…”

 

“Yeah,” Chester smiles, “We met in a bar last night. I bought him a drink. Then another. Then he brought me back here.”

 

Brad meets Chester’s eyes and tries not to laugh, looks away, and then looks at Mike who is still trying to come up with some other random questions to ask.

 

“What do you do for a living, Chester?”

 

“I work in an office, you?”

 

Mike rambles on and on about the hotel, about the band. Anybody else would probably be bored but Chester appears to be genuinely interested. He listens patiently, asking questions where appropriate.

 

“You never told me you were in a band, Brad.”

 

Brad just shrugs, “You didn’t ask.”

 

Mike shifts his weight awkwardly, “I just came over to tell you we made the flyers.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The flyers,” Mike hisses, “for the auditions? For the singer?”

 

“Oh,” Brad says, “those.”

 

Mike digs a folded piece of paper from his pocket and shoves it under his friend’s nose. He glances between Chester and the paper as Brad unfolds and reads it.

 

“Nice. So auditions are the day after tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah. Rob’s dad said we can use the basement of his bar if we want.”

 

“Cool. Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

 

Mike smirks, “Oh what, I can’t even stay for coffee?”

 

Brad ushers him outside and to the bottom of the path, “Please don’t tell the guys about Chester.”

 

“Are you guys, you know, together?”

 

“Yes. No. Fuck. I don’t know, okay? Just keep it to yourself.”

 

Mike agrees reluctantly and nods, “Sure. See you tomorrow.”

 

Brad waits for him to climb back into his car and pull away from the house before he heads back inside. Chester greets him with a cup of coffee and a cheeky smile, “So I’m your lover, huh?”

 

“I couldn’t very well tell him the truth could I?” Brad laughs, taking the mug and wandering over to the couch.

 

Chester sits beside him, pushing empty take-away boxes onto the floor so he can kick his feet up onto the coffee table. He settles back onto the couch and plays with his hands. “Can I audition for your band?”

 

Brad chokes on his coffee, spitting it all over his jeans, “Urgh fuck. Um…can you sing?”

 

Chester glances at him and rolls his eyes, “Think about what you’re asking here.”

 

Okay, Brad thinks, yeah. Voice of an Angel and all that. “Um…okay. You really want to audition?”

 

Chester shrugs, “Why not? Don’t you want your boyfriend in your band?”

 

“You’re not my boyfriend! I just don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.” Chester doesn’t strike him as the kind of vocalist Xero are looking for. Which is basically just anybody better than Mike, but they have to be a rocker and Angels don’t strike Brad as particularly big metal heads.

 

“You don’t think I can sing.” Chester mutters huffily.

 

Brad stares at him disbelievingly, “I never said that, don’t freak out.”

 

“I’m not freaking out!” The Angel snaps angrily and gets up. “I can sing well enough for your band okay?”

 

“Okay!”

 

Chester nods, sits back down again, “Okay.”

 

After a while of confused silence Brad asks, “Where’d your wings go?”

 

“Away. I don’t need them right now. And with Mike being here and all…”

 

“So you can just…make them disappear?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Can you fly?”

 

“Not here. Your gravity is unbelievable.” He says with some disgust.

 

Brad laughs, “Yeah sorry about that. You know, just because you’re auditioning doesn’t mean you’re going to get in. And you can’t get bitchy with me if they don’t pick you.”

 

“They?”

 

“Mike, Rob, Joe and Dave.”

 

Chester stares at him blankly.

 

“Well you’ve met Mike. Rob Bourdon is our drummer whose father owns the bar we rehearse in. Joe Hahn is our DJ – he’s Korean and he’s really strange. And Dave Farell is our bassist.” Brad explains.

 

“Okay. Well then I’ll just have to dazzle them, won’t I?”

 

Brad just laughs, “Yeah,” he says, “Good luck.”

 

***

 

Work sucks. Mike didn’t keep his mouth shut and told everybody willing to listen all about Chester and, when Brad approached him, Mike what him what Chester’s second name is. This isn’t something Brad had asked the Angel yet so he just stutters uselessly which causes everybody to laugh at him.

 

“So there’s a guy living with you and you don’t know his second name?”

 

“He’s not living with me!”

 

“Is he still there now?”

 

Yes.

 

Mike goes through women faster than Brad goes through clean socks yet somehow he still feels like a dirty slut. Then he kicks himself and realises that there’s so much Mike doesn’t know, including the fact that he and Chester are  _not_  an item.

 

By the time he gets home he is exhausted, and is hardly prepared to find Chester sitting at the computer in the study with the Nine Inch Nails blaring from the speakers. Brad just stands completely still for a while, staring. “What are you doing?”

 

Chester jumps, spinning the chair around to face him and grins sheepishly, “Researching.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Your band.” Chester smiles. “I like this Trent guy.”

 

Brad goes to tell him that Xero really doesn’t sound anything like Nine Inch Nails but he is interrupted by Chester singing along with  _Closer_.

 

“I want to fuck you like an animal,” Chester sings effortlessly, “I want to feel you from the inside.”

 

Brad isn’t sure where to look.

 

“I want to fuck you like an animal. My whole existence is flawed. You get me closer to God.”

 

He has to hand it to the Angel; he  _does_  have a killer voice. He leans over and changes the website to Limp Bizkit. “We sound more like this,” he says, “only way better.”

 

Chester sits for a while listening to Fred Durst but eventually puts the Nine Inch Nails back on.

 

“You know, you Angels aren’t all that innocent.” Brad observes as Chester sings about the end of the world and the inevitable death of everything and everyone.

 

“I’m really innocent!” Chester protests.

 

“Yeah sure. Look I was going to order Chinese, you wanna come look at the menu?”

 

It takes a while for Chester to tear his eyes away from the screen and he just blinks, “I have had Chinese before, Brad.”

 

“You have?!”

 

“Of course! So get me, I dunno, spring rolls, noodles, crispy duck…whatever you’re getting.” He turns back to the computer and runs Limewire, downloading as many Nine Inch Nails songs as he can.

 

The Angel eats at the computer and Brad is too tired to make a comment. He doesn’t clear away the wrappers from the Chinese, just turns off the lights and heads out of the room. He sticks his head into the study.

 

“I’m going to bed,” he says but doesn’t continue. Chester is watching porn. He looks casual, like he’s watching any other movie.

 

“Okay,” He says, smiling over his shoulder at Brad, “I’ll follow you up.”

 

“Um...why are you watching porn?”

 

“I was trying to download a music video and got porn instead. It’s pretty cheesy. Wanna watch?”

 

His brain says no but his mouth says yes.

 

They both squeeze onto the one chair and sit in awe as a naked man comes to fix the office copy machine and ends up having sex with a typist on it. Brad tries for a long time not to laugh but can’t help himself, “Did that ever happen in  _your_  office, Chester?”

 

“Urgh not a chance. Everybody up there took their jobs so seriously. If a naked Angel walked into the copy room wanting sex they’d tell him where to get off because photocopying and collating is  _so_  important.”

 

“Would you have done the same?”

 

“No way! I’d have let him have his wicked way with me.”

 

Brad snorts, “Yeah sure except that homosexuality is like, a mortal sin.”

 

“No it isn’t.” Chester frowns.

 

“But the Torah says it’s an ‘abomination’…”

 

The Angel looks surprisingly angry at this, “We’ve already had the God discussion.”

 

“Yeah but…”

 

“Yeah but nothing. All the Holy Books were written by humans. They’re not God’s word, okay? God is just something that you all believe in because it’s nicer than the idea of Heaven and Hell being run by over-worked Angels. You like to think you all have somebody big dictating your lives and when things go bad it’s okay because it’s  _God’s will_.” Chester rants, turning off the computer and getting to his feet. He’s the same height as Brad, but he towers over him now.

 

“Sorry,” Brad murmurs, “I didn’t know. I just –”

 

“I’m not going to stop a really good guy – a charity sponsor, he adopted kids from abusive families and looked after them, he helped little old ladies cross the street – I’m not going to stop this great guy from getting the afterlife he deserves just because he slept with men.”

 

Brad isn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t meant to cause an argument or to hurt the Angel’s feelings, he was just curious. He gets up and bites his lip, “I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

 

Calmer now, Chester murmurs, “I just don’t get how you can think people deserve to go to Hell for being who they are.”

 

“I didn’t say that!  _I_ don’t believe that!” He protests, “I don’t believe that at all. I know people who are gay and I don’t think they deserve to go to Hell…I was just curious.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really. I’m not like that.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.” Brad smiles tentatively. “So um…are you gay?”

 

Chester just shrugs carelessly, “Not really. With Angels it’s a case of love, not gender. You’re the people who like to label everything.”

 

Brad doesn’t tell him just how much he sounds like an outspoken high-school girl, just smiles instead, “That’s nice.”

 

“Yeah it is.” Chester whispers almost sadly.

 

“You miss it.”

 

“Of course I do. But I’ll be fine.” He says with a brave smile, “I just need to adjust.”

 

***

 

He may have put on a brave face but he still can’t sleep for dreams of Heaven and the friends he has left behind. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so lonely, so empty.

 

And half way through the night he gets up, padding along the hallway to Brad’s bedroom and climbing into bed beside the human who doesn’t even stir.

 

And he falls into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Three

Brad is surprised to wake up to Chester’s peaceful face resting near his. Doesn’t particularly mind, though. He can’t imagine how hard things are for him right now and he promises himself not to bring up anything that will upset him again. Seeing Chester in the state he was last night actually hurt him.

 

Which leads Brad to believe that there was something wrong with the Chinese food.

 

He gets up and showers quickly, desperate not to wake up the Angel in his bed. Once he is dressed he heads down to the kitchen, making coffee for them both. It’s the auditions today and for some reason he’s so nervous it’s as if he’s trying out himself.

 

Brad is sitting at the kitchen table staring into his coffee when Chester enters the room.

 

“I er...I borrowed some of your clothes,” he says, “Hope you don’t mind.”

 

The clothes he is wearing are things Brad hasn’t worn for years because he just doesn’t think he suits them; black jeans that hang low on Chester’s hips with black underwear peeking over the top and a Rolling Stones t-shirt which was somewhat baggy on Brad but is fitted and tight in all the right places on the Angel.

 

“I...um...no. I don’t mind. You look great.”

 

Chester beams, “Thanks! The shirt is a bit tight but it fits doesn’t it? How fucking skinny are you? All I’ve seen you do is eat.”

 

“I have a high metabolism.”

 

“Lucky for some.” Chester snorts, rooting through the cupboards, “Don’t you have cereal? Anything?”

 

“I have some Lucky Charms from like, two years ago.”

 

“I’m hungry!”

 

Petulant bastard. “Did you just whine at me?”

 

“I need to eat, Brad.”

 

“Then we’ll go out for breakfast on the way to the audition.”

 

Chester sits down, looking a lot more satisfied, “So what do I have to sing?”

 

“It’ll be one of our songs. You’ll get the lyrics, you’ll get a demo to listen to, then you’ll sing it.”

 

They eat breakfast in McDonalds which Chester has never done before. Greasy hash browns and strange looking sausage burger things which confuse them both. Three weak coffees later they head to the bar the auditions are being held at.

 

Brad kills the engine and turns to Chester, “Mike promised not to tell them anything about you, but he probably has. So if they say anything, just play along and pretend to be my date.”

 

Chester nods and climbs out of the car. He waits for Brad to lead the way, following him inside and down to the basement. Four guys hang around the equipment set up in the corner of the room whilst a group of hopefuls stand opposite them, gripping lyric sheets in their sweaty hands.

 

“Wait here,” Brad says, leaving Chester with the others. He returns with a sheet for him and a tape. “I brought this for you,” he says, fishing a battered cassette player and a pair of headphones from his pocket, holding it out.

 

Chester takes it with a grateful smile, “Thanks,” he says, then, “Brad…I’m nervous.”

 

It’s hard for him not to laugh, “You don’t have to be. Good luck.”

 

Outside Chester sits on the hood of Brad’s car and listens intently to the lyrics, rhythm and vocals. It’s pretty straight forward, even if the lyrics  _are_  depressing, and he picks it up in no time.

 

He returns to the basement thirty minutes later with the others who are auditioning and stands in line. The first person to go is fairly good but not great. Joe the DJ and Mike sit and take notes as each person sings. Too soon it’s Chester’s turn.

 

He adjusts the microphone stand and folds away the lyrics, storing them in his pocket. Mike raises an eyebrow and writes something down but Chester doesn’t pay attention. Rob, the drummer, counts them all in and Brad opens the song with a strong guitar riff.

 

“Crawling in my skin, these wounds they will not heal. Fear is powerful, confusing what is real.”

 

Brad almost skips a beat as Chester continues to sing. His voice works with the song amazingly, even better than it did with the Nine Inch Nails. The people in line after him stand frozen in their spots as he finishes the song, and then they crumple up their lyric sheets, tossing them to the ground as they leave.

 

Chester’s eyes widen and he looks to Mike and Joe excitedly, “Was I good?”

 

Rob stands up from behind his drum kit and laughs, “Fuck yeah you were good!” Mike glares at him and he sits back down, “Um...I mean...uh...”

 

“Yeah,” Mike says, “You were really good. But we have to discuss your vocals like everybody else’s so go wait outside.”

 

Chester, along with the people who were brave enough to stay, head upstairs and sit in the bar. There is a nervous energy buzzing amongst them as they sit in silence and wait for the band to deliberate.

 

In the basement Brad is saying “He was good, right? He was really good?”

 

“Yeah,” Dave agrees, “He was amazing. I mean, the others were good too but Chester is the clear choice. Don’t you think?”

 

Joe nods, looking up from his notes, “Where’d you find him.”

 

“Um...a bar. He was uh…on the karaoke.”

 

Mike snorts, “Yeah sure.”

 

Brad glares at him but nobody questions it. They other singers never come into question and it becomes apparent that Chester is definitely, definitely what they need in Xero. Rob heads upstairs to tell them and when he returns has an excited Angel pinned to his side, grinning from ear-to-ear.

 

“I’m in? Seriously?”

 

“Yeah,” Brad laughs, “seriously.”

 

“Woohoo!” Chester cheers triumphantly and dives toward Brad, jumping on him and wrapping his arms around him.

 

Brad laughs hysterically, “Get off me you loon!”

 

Chester jumps down and does a happy dance, wiggling his ass and waving his arms like he’s been electrocuted, “I’m in!” He chants, “I’m iiiin, I’m iiiin.”

 

Everybody laughs and joins in save for Mike who stands, glaring. Brad sidles up to him hesitantly, “What’s wrong?”

 

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

 

“No,” Brad tells him, “I swear, you’re doing the right thing.”

 

***

 

They go shopping to celebrate. Who’d have thought Angels would be  _so_ into designer clothing. Brad almost maxes out his credit card buying expensive shirt after expensive shirt which all look the same to him but, Chester argues, that is because he has no taste.

 

After that it’s jeans, and Chester is forever chasing him around asking “Does my ass look good in these?” and “Are these forgiving of my figure?”

 

They leave with so many bags they can hardly walk. Once they are safely jammed in the back of Brad’s car the pair go for ice cream. Chester orders vanilla which Brad can’t even begin to understand.

 

“Vanilla.”

 

“Yes, Brad. Vanilla.”

 

“But it has no flavour.”

 

“Everything has flavour!”

 

“Air has no flavour.”

 

“For fucks sake.” Chester rolls his eyes and digs into the ice cream.

 

Brad fidgets, staring between his double chocolate fudge brownie chip something with extra chocolate and Chester’s bowl of vanilla with rainbow sprinkles.

 

He can’t help himself. He jabs his spoon into the vanilla and quickly eats it before Chester can say anything.

 

“Did you just steal my boring, tasteless ice cream, Brad?”

 

Brad shakes his head, gritting his teeth against brain freeze. That’d be divine retribution or something. Should never piss off an Angel, really.

 

He’s so busy trying not to cry from the pain that he doesn’t notice Chester loading his spoon with ice cream. He only realises what is going on when it hits him in the face. “Hey!”

 

Once he gets over the shock he loads his own spoon and flicks the ice cream in Chester’s direction. The Angel, however, is too fast and dodges the chocolate. It hits the man sitting behind them in the back of the head and when he turns around, they take the chance to leave before they’re kicked out.

 

It’s hard to run and laugh hysterically until you feel physically sick at the same time, Brad finds.

 

***

 

The next day means work for Brad, and when he wakes up he’s fairly sure he’s dead. Or dying. Everything is white. And he can’t breathe. When he inhales all he gets is a mouthful of feathers and splutters, trying to sit up.

 

“Wah!”

 

Brad looks around confused.  _He_  didn’t make that noise. He peers over the edge of the bed and smiles sheepishly at a pissed off Chester lying on the floor, wings flexed defensively. “Sorry!” Brad laughs, “I thought I was being attacked by a seagull.”

 

“You’re such a dick.” Chester hisses, getting to his feet and brushing himself off.

 

“You’re the one with the wing in my face. Who does that?!”

 

“If you don’t want me to sleep in here just say so.”

 

“I never said I didn’t want you in here. Just…the feathers are always everywhere. I could trace you through the house just by following the path of little white feathers.” Brad hisses.

 

“God you’re so fucking cranky,” Chester mutters, stomping out of the room.

 

They avoid each other while Brad is still in the house, and only when he has left does Chester creep back inside from where he was hiding in the back yard, counting the clouds.

 

***

 

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Brad tells the radio of his car, “I didn’t mean to compare you to a seagull. Fuck. No. Don’t bring that up again or he’ll get offended. Um…I’m sorry I yelled at you – I have my period. Yes. Bring some humour to it. Good one Brad.”

 

It’s been a long day, as per usual. Mike kept telling him that he’d have to have a one-to-one with Chester to see how good he is at writing lyrics, chattering excitedly as he and Brad set each table for the snotty hotel guests.

 

It’s not that he isn’t excited about Chester being in the band, it’s just that the idea of teaching him everything about Xero wears him out and he’d really rather skip to the bit where they’re famous and accepting a Grammy.

 

He unlocks the front door, dumping the keys on the table in the hallway. The TV in the living room is turned on and MTV is blaring. “Chester?” Brad calls out, checking the kitchen and then the study since food and porn seem to be an Angel’s perfect day in.

 

“Chester?” Brad calls out again as he ascends the stairs.

 

“M’in the bathroom,” comes the miserable reply.

 

He pushes the bathroom door open and chokes on his own breath. There is blood everywhere, bloody hand prints on the porcelain of the basin, blood all over Chester’s once pristine wings and blood in the bath and on the floor.

 

“Fuck!” Brad panics, kneeling down beside Chester and trying to work out what he should do, “What the fuck happened?! Oh my god!”

 

“Brad calm down.”

 

“Calm down?! You’re fucking bleeding!”

 

Chester stares at him blankly for a long time before looking down at the red all over his hands and gasps, “Oh! Oh no I’m not! It’s...it’s hair dye.”

 

Brad’s face falls.

 

“What?”

 

“I er...I wanted to try out a new look. Everybody on the TV has coloured hair.”

 

“I thought you’d been hacked to pieces!” Brad squeaks indignantly, “I thought...oh god you scared me.”

 

Chester cups Brad’s face and smiles softly, “I’m fine. But it’s nice that you worried.”

 

It isn’t until he pulls away his hands that he realises there is now two big red handprints on Brad’s cheeks. He says nothing and goes back to trying to reach the back of his wings.

 

“Why are you dying your wings?”

 

“Why not? I only used a tiny bit on my hair,” he beams, ducking his head so Brad can see his blood red hair, “so I thought I’d make it all match.”

 

“Oh. Well let me help you.”

 

Brad kneels behind Chester with the pot of dye. He pulls on the latex gloves that came in the box, which Chester obviously decided to forego, and gently works the dye into the beautiful feathers before him.

 

Chester moans.

 

He doesn’t say anything and just goes back to applying the dye but then Chester makes another noise. “Did you just purr?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

Brad giggles, “So you like having your wings touched, huh?”

 

“They’re just...sensitive.”

 

“You’re like a giant cat,” Brad says, rolling his eyes and going back to the job in hand.

 

Chester falls asleep more than once, almost falling but jerking himself upright before he hits the floor. Brad’s inner girl ‘aaw’s’ at this because really, it is pretty cute. And he doesn’t care how potentially gay this all is. It’s not like Chester is even a human being.

 

So that doesn’t make him gay, right?

 

He’s not gay. He really really likes tits. So that makes him straight.

 

Yes, he thinks to himself, I am so manly. Sitting here dying my friend’s wings.

 

Fuck.

 

It takes him a while to realise that he has ran out of dye, but even then he doesn’t stop running his fingers gently over the bright red feathers.

 

“Is it done?”

 

“Yep. They look awesome, by the way.”

 

“Well I thought if I was going to shed everywhere it might as well match your wallpaper,” Chester grins, getting up and turning on the shower.

 

Brad grabs the pot of dye, the gloves and gets to his feet, wandering out of the room and closing the door behind him.


	4. Four

The day of their first rehearsal with Chester as their singer dawns faster than Brad would have liked. They meet in the basement of the bar and Mike takes the Angel to one side. They sit in the corner of the room for most of the day, going over lyrics and ideas.

 

“They seem to get along well,” says Rob, tightening a cymbal and tapping it experimentally.

 

“Yeah,” Brad nods absently. He’s worried. Worried that Mike will pick faults with Chester or hurt him. Then he remembers that Chester isn’t going to break – he’s a fucking celestial being.

 

Chester sifts through the lyrics sheets Mike has given them and asks, “Do you have a pen?”

 

Whilst the rest of the band practice in the background Chester goes through Mike’s lyrics adding his own thoughts to them. He is very aware of the emcee watching his every move. “It’s not that I don’t like them,” Chester says, crossing out a word, “I just think these might fit a little better.”

 

Mike studies the paper. There aren’t many changes but those that have been made are most definitely for the better. He can’t believe he hasn’t changed them before now.

 

“Should I try singing it?” He asks.

 

Mike nods, handing the sheet back to him and leaning back against the wall and listening to Chester’s voice. The words fall from his mouth easily, his accent wrapping around each syllable and making them so completely different to the way Mike had always sung them.

 

“God,” he says when Chester reaches the final chorus, “How have you never been picked up for a band sooner?”

 

“I…uh…I guess I didn’t realise I was good enough,” he shrugs.

 

“You’re fucking amazing, dude. How about we work on some stuff at my place tomorrow when I get off from work?”

 

“Yeah sure,” Chester beams, “I’d love to.”

 

At first Chester thinks Brad is pissed at him, and the car ride home is tense. Something is being left unsaid, and it isn’t until they’re in the house and Brad is about to head upstairs that Chester asks if he is okay.

 

Brad sighs heavily and nods, “I’m fine.”

 

“Okay…but that sounded like the sigh of a dying man.”

 

“It’s just Mike. I think you should be careful around him – especially when writing lyrics.”

 

“I. Brad. They’re only lyrics…”

 

“I just don’t think he’s beyond using you as a selling point.”

 

“But isn’t that why I auditioned? Isn’t that the whole fucking point?”

 

“I don’t mean your voice I mean…you. If he finds out where you really come from. I just think you should try to be as private as you can.”

 

Chester stares, his wings appearing and spreading out behind him. His body language, it’s saying  _try me_. “You don’t trust your best friend. But you trust a stranger who fell from the sky. Is it that you don’t trust him, or that you want to keep me to yourself?”

 

Both. But he’ll never admit to that.

 

“I don’t trust him.”

 

“You’re a liar,” Chester hisses, “You may have taken me in but that does not make me your god damn  _pet_.”

 

His wings vanish and then he does too, storming out of the front door and running full pelt down the street. By the time Brad gets to the bottom of the path to shout after him he is only a spec in the distance.

 

Fuck.

 

***

 

He gets Mike’s address from Rob who works at his father’s bar. He tries not to come across as a stalker, making out like he’s going over to discuss lyrics. Which would be a whole lot more convincing if it wasn’t ten at night.

 

“You and Brad have a lover’s tiff?”

 

Chester nods, smiling, “Something like that. Hey, um…if Brad calls or if you see him don’t tell him where I am. Please?”

 

Rob looks thoughtful for a minute. Chester supposes it isn’t fair of him to choose someone he barely knows over his best friend. But then he nods, “Sure,” he says, “but if he finds you, don’t blame me.”

 

“I won’t.” Chester smiles, clapping the drummer on the back and turning away.

 

***

 

Mike doesn’t act shocked when Chester shows up on his doorstep babbling about meaning to call but losing his cell phone and just needing to get out of the house for a few hours and writing lyrics. Instead he offers him a beer which Chester takes with a grateful smile.

 

Mike’s backyard is lit with tiny lights which he tells Chester were left behind by the previous owner but he doesn’t believe him.

 

“It’s okay if you like pretty little fairy lights, Mike.”

 

“They’re not fairy lights!” Mike splutters, slapping Chester’s thigh. They just look at each other and laugh. “So where do you come from, Ches’? I don’t know anything about you.”

 

“Arizona,” Chester lies smoothly, sipping his beer, “I moved here for work and I was couch surfing when I met Brad. He offered me his spare room. The end.”

 

“You sleep in the guest room?”

 

Chester forgets, momentarily, the being-Brad’s-boyfriend scenario and kicks himself. Gets it back, though, saying “Yeah. Sometimes,” he adds a wink. Just for good measure.

 

They head inside, eventually, and Chester makes Mike sit through hours of MTV. His heart almost stops, though, when he sees an Angel he knows on the TV.

 

“Oh man,” he says, breathlessly, “I know him.”

 

“You know Scott Weiland?”

 

No. That’s not his name.

 

The man on the screen is dressed in an expensive white suit with a blood-red tie and black shoes, a cigarette hanging lazily from his hand.

 

Lucifer.

 

Chester can’t believe it.

 

“Yeah,” he says, “I…didn’t know he had a band.”

 

“Yeah they’re called Velvet Revolver. They’re pretty big. How do you know him?”

 

Chester smirks to himself, “I knew him when he had nothing.”

 

“Claim to fame, huh?”

 

Something like that.

 

***

 

Chester stands on Brad’s doorstep the next day, hung over and exhausted. He holds his finger to the doorbell, knowing that his friend won’t get out of bed unless he  _really_  has to.

 

The door opens eventually and Brad pounces on him, wrapping his arms around his waist and hugging him tight, “Oh God I was so fucking worried. You’re such an asshole. Where the fuck were you?”

 

“Mike’s place,” Chester mumbles. “I’m sorry I just walked out.”

 

“Are you okay? You look like death.”

 

“Your beer fucking sucks.”

 

Brad laughs and steps back to let the Angel in. He leads him to the kitchen and drops two pills into a glass of water, pushing it across the counter. “Here,” he says, “this’ll make you feel better.”

 

With a wince Chester drinks the entire glass and sets it back down, sitting at the table with his head in his hands, “I saw Lucifer.”

 

What do you say to that?

 

“He’s in a band.”

 

“Lucifer…as in the Devil?”

 

“He was kicked out of Heaven by Michael for being a total douche bag and was sent to Hell. But he liked Earth too much, liked fucking with humans. Mike said he was called Scott Weiland.”

 

“No fucking way.”

 

Chester looks up and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Weiland is like,  _such_  a rock star. He’s got the whole sex, drugs, rock and roll lifestyle going on.” Brad says, almost admiringly, “He trashes hotel rooms, he’s been in and out of rehab. He’s a wife beater, too.”

 

“What a guy.”

 

Brad meets Chester’s eyes, noticing for the first time the disappointment there. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Everything is wrong.” Chester hisses, “Him being here fucks  _everything_  up. And what the fuck is the point of beating your wife? It’s  _your_  wife. That’s like keying your own car. And do you have any idea what he’s capable of?”

 

Brad looks clueless. Chester wants to explain, he wants to tell him about what Lucifer is after, why he  _really_  chose to stay on Earth. War – that’s his fault. Famine, disease, abusive parents. This is all Lucifer’s doing. He told the Archangels that humans are easy to manipulate, that it was just a matter of time before somebody went down there and set them on each other.

 

Then he was banished from Heaven. And the destruction began.

 

And maybe Chester’s a little bit disappointed about him being in a band with the guitarist from fucking Guns ‘n’ Roses. Chester had thought he was special – the only Angel to be in a rock band – but it turns out he isn’t and that even the Lord of the fucking Underworld can get famous just by being a junkie with pants so tight he mustn’t have any circulation.

 

He tries to swallow down a wave of jealousy but fails, letting his head fall to the table with an audible thud. He groans tiredly. He didn’t even drink that much last night – Mike was the one putting them away like there was no tomorrow – but still has a headache like he’d drank until the sun came up.

 

That’s when he remembers what he  _really_  wanted to tell Brad. He and Mike had been sitting on the couch talking, mostly about the future of the band and about how one day  _they_  would be on MTV, number one on the charts. Chester blinked and suddenly Mike had moved closer.

 

Blinked again and there was a hand on his knee.

 

“Mike,” he’d murmured in warning. The emcee wasn’t listening, though, and slowly slid his hand higher. Chester slapped it away and stood up, “W-where is the guest room?”

 

Mike frowns, points down the hallway, “First door on the right.”

 

As Chester scurries down the hall, desperate to hide, he hears Mike call after him, “Oh hey, uh, don’t tell Brad. Okay?”

 

He had agreed, at the time, but now he wants more than anything to tell him. Realises, though, that he has no reason to. Brad isn’t his lover and he didn’t cheat on him with Mike. Barely anything happened, but he still feels like something is wrong.

 

And that maybe Brad was right, and that he shouldn’t trust Mike.

 

Brad sighs and reaches out, running his fingers over one of Chester’s wings. The feathers are still bright red and soft to touch. The Angel smiles at him tiredly.

 

“We’ll just stay away from Scott Weiland and his band, okay? I won’t let him hurt you.”

 

But it’s not himself that Chester is scared for.

 

***

 

Chester thinks he could divide his life on Earth into chapters. Chapter one was falling and being found. The air sucked out of his lungs as he plummeted toward the sea. And he thought he’d be lost forever in the ocean but then Brad found him, or he found Brad. Either way, he feels like something had fallen into place.

 

Chapter two is touring. And he can’t wait to see how this part of his new life plays out.

 

***

 

The RV that Xero tour in is so tiny that Chester can never have his wings out. One night, late at night, he and Brad argue about nothing at all. It’s a defence mechanism and his wings appear, feathers flying everywhere. They reach both sides of the RV and bend awkwardly.

 

“Fuck!” Brad hisses, “Get rid of them!”

 

Chester glares, “You’re not fucking helping by snapping.”

 

“Fuck! They’re going to see them!”

 

Once Brad takes a deep breath and calms down he apologises to Chester for being such an asshole. And the wings disappear.

 

“That was just a ploy to get me to suck up to you, wasn’t it?”

 

Chester doesn’t say anything, but it was.

 

Most of the shows suck and the crowd don’t give a crap but they have fun with it anyway. They play a show in a bar in LA which their manager assures them that talent scouts from local record labels will be at and they rock the fuck out.

 

Backstage they all buzz with adrenalin and the prospect of getting signed. Chester has a gut feeling that it won’t happen this time around, but who is he to rain on their parade? He was right, though. It doesn’t happen. And everybody looks so sad he aches. But they still go to Hooters and get drunk, regardless.

 

They keep touring, going from club to pub to club to pub. Eventually they change their name because, apparently, Xero is too confusing. Mike fumes for quite some time and nobody can calm him down.

 

“It’s a fucking good name.”

 

“Makes me think of photocopiers,” Rob says.

 

“Shut the fuck up, you’re not fucking helping.”

 

When they stop for gas Chester gets up calmly and leads him off the RV, “Maybe a name change is a good thing,” he says, “It’s obviously what the people want.”

 

“It took ages to come up with Xero,” Mike whines. Relents, eventually, and the band sit around the cramped dining table with their manager, Steve, and plot names.

 

“How about The Pricks?” Joe suggests.

 

“ _You_  are a prick,” Mike mutters under his breath.

 

“We need something relevant. Something that lets you know what you’re going to hear from us.”

 

Brad is right. They need something that fits their sound. And, eventually, Dave says, “Hybrid.”

 

“Not long enough.”

 

And Rob says, “Hybrid Theory.”

 

And for the first time in a week Mike smiles widely, “I like it,” he says, “I really like it.”

 

“Hybrid Theory it is, then,” Steve nods.

 

They shake on it.

 

***

 

On their days off they try to spend some time apart, but Chester gets nervous around other humans without Brad so they don’t leave each other’s sides. They go to bars where other up-and-coming bands are playing and compare them to their band. Mostly they suck, and Brad and Chester raise their glasses to how great Hybrid Theory is compared to the shit they have been listening to all night.

 

They go swimming in the hotel pool late after everybody leaves so that Chester can sit on the side with his feet in the water; wings arced behind him as Brad swims laps.

 

“You should do some exercise,” Brad says as he pushes himself away from the side.

 

Chester laughs, “Asshole,” he says, splashing water with his feet. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

 

“No! I’m just saying that we all need exercise to stay healthy.”

 

Chester sits up straight, correct posture, sucking in his stomach. Breathlessly he says, “I’m hot. I don’t need exercise.”

 

Brad smirks and swims over to the side, holding on, “I have something to tell you that I know you won’t like.” He climbs out and sits beside him, kicking his feet in the water, “Steve says he thinks you should maybe get singing lessons.”

 

Chester stares at the water then glances up at Brad who is biting his bottom lip, “I thought I was good enough.” He says with all the innocence of a four year old.

 

“You are!” Brad says, “Just Steve thinks maybe if you had some training…”

 

None of the band agrees with Steve, they don’t blame Chester for them not getting signed yet. It’s not the end of the world, it’s only a matter of time before somebody notices them. And when he brought it up Brad just laughed, “You going to pay for them?” He asked.

 

Steve didn’t know what to say because the answer was, of course, no. None of them could afford lessons even if they all put their money together. The bars they play at barely pay them and even that measly amount is spent on gas and food.

 

Besides, Chester’s voice is all they require and it sure as hell doesn’t need any help. He thinks maybe Steve is simply clutching at straws, trying to come up with reasons as to why they still haven’t been signed. But it’s not been very long since they set off from home with their new singer – there’s plenty of time yet.

 

Chester looks completely heartbroken and Brad doesn’t know what to say. He wants to comfort him. He tells him about how nobody agrees with Steve, about how his voice is fucking perfect the way it is.

 

“Not as good as Lucifer’s, though.” Chester points out.

 

His wings disappear and he slides into the water gracefully. Brad watches in silence as he swims to the other side of the pool then sinks under the water, swimming back without surfacing. It’s beautiful to watch. Some days Brad forgets Chester isn’t just his friend, the guy who lives with him. Forgets he is an Angel.

 

But then he watches him like he is now, and he remembers.

 

How could he not?

 

As Chester surfaces taking a deep, silent breath Brad decides he wants to freeze this moment forever.

 

“Lucifer can have the best voice in the world for all I care,” Brad says quietly, “You’re still the one I want in the band. Not him.”

 

Chester smiles, “Thanks.” He climbs out and grabs his towel from where it lies, slung over a chair, “You know…I have a good feeling about this week. I think this will be  _our_  week.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, throwing the other towel at Brad’s head and sauntering out of the room.


	5. Five

They’re on their way to Some Bar in Some City just fresh from Some Place With Bad Sea Food with food poisoning still lingering when the RV clunks, shudders, then breaks down.

 

Joe is driving when it happens and he just sits with his hands gripping the steering wheel tight and staring at the smoke coming from everywhere with wide eyes. “Oh fuck,” he mutters, opening the door and climbing out to inspect the damage.

 

Everybody piles off the RV in various stages of dress willing to attempt to get it up and running again despite their complete lack of vehicular knowledge, save for Chester who stays in bed with the sheets pulled over his head. Rob laughs when he returns to grab a bottle of water, “You’re so lazy.”

 

And tiredly, Chester mumbles, “Don’ wanna get my wings dirty.”

 

Rob snorts, “I’ll come back when you’re coherent, how about that?”

 

Outside, Brad is practically inside the engine, rooting around. “It’s the spark plugs,” he says as if he knows what he’s talking about.”

 

“No, dude,” Mike mutters as he shoves the guitarist out of the way, “It’s probably just the defibrillator cap. Lemme in.”

 

The fact is, nobody has any idea what is wrong or how long it will take to get fixed and they have to be in the next town in less than two hours.

 

“It’s Joe’s fucking bad driving, that’s what it is,” Dave says, staring at Joe who is leaning against the side of the RV with his arms folded over his chest defensively.

 

“Well you drove us into a ditch last time you were behind the wheel so stop talking like you’re a fucking driving God!”

 

“Shut the fuck up you dumb chink.”

 

“I’m  _Korean_  you dick weed and how about you come say that racist crap to my face.”

 

“Hey, maybe you’re the reason we haven’t been signed,” Dave spits, stepping closer, “After all, who needs a DJ?”

 

Their voices grow louder and louder until Chester can no longer shut them out. He rolls out of bed and stomps off the RV, barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of Superman boxers. He pushes Mike out of the way and reaches into the back of the engine, twisting something then pulling on something else.

 

He slams the engine cover shut and climbs into the driver’s seat, gunning the engine which roars to life happily.

 

And by the time the others are back on the bus he is back in bed. Because today is already working out to be a bad one.

 

***

 

They’re late and barely make it on stage in time. They’re exhausted, too, from arguing and then sitting in tense silence. From being stuck in traffic for hours. From rushing to the venue with all of their equipment in tow. But Mike and Chester still throw their all into their performance and the rest of the band play up a storm.

 

This time the audience is pretty drunk so they join in, singing along with words they’ve made up. Still, it’s participation, which is better than playing to a bar full of stony faced bikers all night.

 

By the time they are packing up their equipment Chester has a headache burning the back of his eyeballs. He feels as if he could sleep forever, but still smiles warmly when a man approaches him.

 

“You guys are good. Hybrid Theory, yes?”

 

Chester nods, “Yeah we are. Who did we impress?”

 

The man sticks out his hand for Chester to shake, “Jeff Blue,” he says, “I’m an A & R agent for Warner Brothers music.”

 

Chester feels that he has been faced with many things in his life which could reduce him to a stuttering mess but has dealt with them well. Right now, however, he can barely speak. This guy is fucking important, even he knows that.

 

But all he can do is open and close his mouth. Eventually he finds his voice and stammers, “I-I’m Chester Bennington.”

 

“We received your demo tape in the mail a month or so ago but I see the band have made an addition since then.”

 

“Yeah, I’m the new guy.” Chester smiles. He glances back over his shoulder, desperate to get Mike’s attention. He needs someone who knows  _anything_  about the music business to help him out but Mike has his head down, helping Rob dismantle his cymbals.

 

“Anyway,” Jeff says, “I just want to let you know what we’re definitely interested in hearing more.” He fishes a business card from his pocket and holds it out, “Give us a call when you’re back in LA and we’ll arrange a meeting, okay?”

 

Chester nods, trying not to piss his pants, “Okay. Thank you. So much.”

 

“No problem. Talk to you later.”

 

And then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.

 

Chester stands, frozen, holding the business card.

 

Then he finds his voice and screeches, “You guys! You guys!”

 

Dave looks over, “Jesus, calm down.”

 

He wants to tell them what’s wrong, what just happened, but his knees are weak and there’s no blood in his head or air in his lungs. He strides over to Mike and waves the business card under his nose, babbling in tongues.

 

Brad snatches it away before Mike even reads it and stares at it in disbelief, “No way,” he says, “No way in hell.”

 

“H-he said he’d heard our demo and that he w-wanted us to give him a call when we were back in…in LA.”

 

They all stand and stare at each other. This is it. This is what they’ve been waiting for.

 

Time stands still, and for a long time nobody says anything or dares breathe.

 

“Is this for real?” Mike asks, grabbing the card from Brad’s hand and studying it closely.

 

“This is for real,” Chester murmurs.

 

When they start laughing everybody in the bar stares at them confused. They cheer and jump, grabbing each other and howling. They hug, and when Chester wraps his arms around Brad he whispers, “See? Told you this was our week.”

 

And Brad laughs happily.

 

***

 

It is decided that they should cancel all the gigs they have lined up and head straight back home. It was a sacrifice they were all willing to make. Being stuck on the shitty RV day in, day out was really starting to take its toll and not a day went by without an argument. But now, with the end in sight, they couldn’t be happier.

 

The first thing Chester does when he gets back to Brad’s place is shower. It feels like they’ve been away for years when really they haven’t. And he realises for the first time that he hasn’t been thinking about Heaven. But now that he has nowhere to be and nothing to do, it’s all that is going through his head.

 

He has grown used to Earth but he misses his home. He misses being around other Angels. He misses the cube farm and his shitty little office and the computer he has more than once wanted to put his fist through.

 

The water burns his skin and washes away his worries, his exhaustion. Right now Mike is probably on the phone to Jeff Blue arranging their appointment. Chester can’t wait, he really can’t.

 

But right now all he wants to do is sleep.

 

When he gets out of the shower Brad calls for him and he pads downstairs in just his underwear.

 

“I made us dinner,” Brad says, beaming.

 

There are champagne flutes which probably cost five dollars for the set and a lovely meal on plates Chester has never seen before.

 

“To celebrate,” he elaborates. “I feel like we should be celebrating.”

 

“I’m guessing my pants aren’t appropriate dinner attire, then?” Chester smirks. He heads upstairs and pulls on some clothes before wandering back down and taking a seat opposite Brad.

 

The meal is delicious. And the champagne makes him light headed. He helps clear away the dishes and says, “I had no idea you could cook, Brad.”

 

Brad says nothing and discreetly scrapes the plates into the trash can, trying to close it before Chester sees. But it’s too late. Chester stares into the bin and points in disbelief at the discarded take away cartons and wrappers in there.

 

“You ordered in? You  _didn’t_  cook?!”

 

Brad blushes bright red and dumps the dishes in the sink, “I can’t cook for shit, dude.”

 

He expects Chester to get mad, say he’s ruined the night by being a lazy bum. But the Angel is laughing, doubled up in hysterics, “I c-can’t believe you!” He giggles, “You had me think you made all this food a-and you didn’t!”

 

“It’s not  _that_  funny, Ches’.” Brad frowns.

 

But Chester can’t stop laughing. The kind of laughter that makes you feel really silly if you’re alone, but now he can’t even take a breath. It becomes contagious as opposed to scary, eventually, and Brad joins in.

 

The pair of them stay there, laughing until their stomachs ache and they are clutching their sides and gasping for air.

 

“I’m so happy,” Brad says, grinning from ear to ear.

 

Chester slaps him playfully, “You’re such a cheesy asshole.”

 

“That’s fucking disgusting. I do not have a cheesy asshole. I took a shower yesterday.”

 

And it sets them both off laughing uncontrollably again.

 

***

 

The meeting is so boring that Chester very nearly falls asleep. He only perks up when he hears the words ‘same name as another band’ and ‘lawsuit’.

 

“So we have to pick a new name?” Rob asks.

 

“Yes,” says the big Warner executive in a suit so sharp it could cut glass. He asks if they need time to decide, if they’d like to come back another day but they all say no straight away.

 

They leave the room for a while and sit in the waiting room, their chairs pulled close to one another and their heads bent in concentration. It took them long enough to come up with Hybrid Theory. What the hell are they going to do now?

 

Brad gets up and stands at the window, staring out at the toy cars and people buzzing around storeys below them.

 

“Are you going to give  _any_  input at all, Brad?” Mike snaps, throwing down the notebook they have all been jotting ideas, albeit bad ideas, on.

 

“I dunno,” Brad says, shrugging. He watches a homeless guy push a shopping cart of his possessions across the street and into the park, “Lincoln Park.” He says.

 

“That’s a fucking shitty idea.”

 

Brad goes to protest but the doors to the conference room opens up and Jeff pokes his head out, looking more than a little impatient, “Time’s running out you guys. Mr Charlton has to leave in an hour and if we’re to go over everything we really need to get started now.”

 

“We’ve decided,” Brad says, “Let’s go.”

 

Everybody gets up nervously and follows their guitarist back into the conference room with their heads bowed. They can always change the name later but this deal may end up being a here and now thing – if they fuck this up then it could all be over.

 

“So,” Charlton says, “what have you come up with?”

 

“Lincoln Park,” Mike mutters.

 

“But not spelled like the park!” Joe pipes up when it becomes apparent that the executive is less than impressed. They all know that it’s originality that is key. Joe grabs Mike’s notebook and scribbles ‘Linkin Park’ on it, pushing it across the table.

 

Jeff takes it and stares at it long and hard, his expression changing from confusion to something unreadable. He pushes it along to Charlton and sits back in his seat. Charlton looks at the paper and nods, “Good,” he says, “different. We’ve heard your demo, as you know, but we’d like to hear more from you. So…”

 

He pushes papers towards each of them and a pen. “If you’ll just read through this contract and sign on the line, we’ll arrange some studio time for you to find your feet and then we’ll see about an album, shall we?”

 

Mike has to be the only one who actually reads the contract carefully, studying every foot note and bullet point. The others simply go straight to the line, signing and dating it, shoving the papers back towards Charlton who smiles and takes them gratefully.

 

He thanks them all individually as they go to leave, shaking their hands and reassuring them that he’ll be in touch.

 

They wait until they’re out of the office, out of the building, before they go completely mad. Mike tackles Chester almost to the ground and cries out, “We did it! Oh my God we did it!”

 

And Dave pulls them all into a hug and they stand there on the street in front of the Warner building hugging and, some of them – namely Brad, crying.

 

***

 

The go out immediately and celebrate. It doesn’t matter how tired they are or how little everybody can be bothered – they’ve officially been signed. Albeit with a name they don’t  _really_  like. But they’re signed nevertheless. Nobody really knows where they’re going, just head in the direction a local guy points them in, and eventually find a street full of bars, clubs and hookers.

 

Chester can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face, even as they step into the smoky darkness of a run down bar. He turns to Brad and laughs when he notices the same dopey grin on his friend’s face.

 

“Are you laughing at me?” Brad smirks.

 

He shrugs and nods in the direction of the bar. They head over and Chester leans in to the barmaid asking, “What would you recommend?”

 

Turns out her recommendation is tequila shots which Brad would usually say no to, but they’re celebrating damn it. He licks the salt from his hand, knocks back the shot and then sucks on the lemon slice, whining all along.

 

Chester giggles uncontrollably and orders four more as well as absinthe shots and “Anything red,” he says, “to match my hair.”

 

They do the absinthe first, knocking it back and keeping their heads tilted to the ceiling trying to keep their lunch in their stomachs. After that is the red stuff, which tastes like raspberries and burns their mouths like fire.

 

Chester takes Brad’s hand and licks it, pours on the salt from the shaker the barmaid gave them, and licks it off. As he watches the Angel down the shot and suck the lemon, Brad is fairly sure that any heterosexuality in his body has left on a jet plane and sure as fuck isn’t coming back.

 

Vodka jelly shots come next. And then something brightly coloured and in a test tube which tastes like Christmas and another which tastes like summer. And success.

 

But suddenly Chester can’t breathe, the world pressing in on him from every side. He slides off the bar stool and shouts in Brad’s general direction “I’m going for a piss.”

 

Brad probably doesn’t even hear him, just nods absently and goes back to playing with his hair in fascination. Chester heads to the back of the noisy bar, following the sign for the toilets. Even in the mostly quiet bathroom he can’t catch his breath. Never was one for big crowds. Being a rock star probably isn’t such a good idea, really.

 

He takes a piss and does as the big sign above the urinal tells him and washes his hand with soap that smells like rot. Stepping back into the noise of the bar makes him weary and strangely sober so he slips out the back door.

 

As he steps into the alley the cool night air bathes his skin and he breathes in deep. The door slides closed behind him with a dull thud and he jumps, despite himself. He trudges through the puddles and broken glass until he reaches the top of the alley and leans heavily against the wall watching drunk people stumble past.

 

One man walks past then double takes, comes back and steps into the alley, “Hey there, precious.” He slurs, his breath nothing but whiskey and cheap menthol cigarettes.

 

Chester says nothing, stands completely still.

 

The man steps closer and before Chester can back away he grabs his wrists pushing him back against the wall, “Oh don’t worry baby I ain’t going to hurt you.”

 

Chester struggles, trying to push the man away but a fist meets his jaw and he stumbles, falling to his knees. Dirty, broken bottles tear the knees of his expensive jeans, tear his skin. He gets up and staggers down back toward the door he came out of but it’s locked. And now he’s backed up against a dumpster as the drunk comes toward him again.

 

The man grins, grabbing a handful of Chester’s hair and presses him face first into the wall, his cheek scraping against the rough brick. When the Angel renews his struggles the guy slams his head against the wall hard. Chester cries out and blinks blood from his eyes, dizzy and confused.

 

“Please,” he mumbles, not quite believing that he’s begging a fucking  _human,_  “please just leave me alone. I-I have no money. I have nothing for you.”

 

“Oh you have something for me,” the guy laughs, grinding his hard-on against Chester’s ass.

 

This is a nightmare. He’s so drunk he’s hallucinating. Please, please, let this all be a horrible dream.

 

The entire world is spinning and as the man unfastens Chester’s torn jeans, pulling them down, the Angel can’t do anything but fight weakly.

 

The soft slide of a leather belt from belt loops, then blinding, searing pain.

 

Chester screams and can’t control his wings appearing, flexing angrily between him and his attacker. This doesn’t seem to deter the man and he grabs hold of one roughly, tugging on it.

 

“Fuck,” he groans as he slams forward again, “fuck I musta been spiked.”

 

It hurts so much Chester can’t breathe. The man pushes his face into the wall and rips handfuls of feathers from his wings.

 

It is never ending. The pain insurmountable.

 

Eventually, though, the guy pulls away. Chester falls to the ground sobbing. He doesn’t want to cry, keeps telling himself not to, but his body feels like it is shutting down. There’s blood everywhere. Blood and feathers.

 

He barely manages to pull his pants up before he just curls up and cries helplessly.

 

There is the sound of footsteps splashing through puddles. Then shouting.

 

“Chester? Oh fuck Chester!”

 

It’s Brad. And Chester wants to tell him what happened, wants to tell him it hurts. It hurts so much. But when his friend kneels beside him, stroking his hair and asking over and over, “Are you okay? What the hell happened? Who did this to you?” he can’t even speak.

 

He manoeuvres himself to sit up and clings to Brad’s chest, sobbing violently. Brad runs a hand through his hair and kisses his scraped cheek softly, “Ssh,” he whispers, “We’re going to hospital, okay? Everything is going to be okay.”

 

As he scoops Chester up into his arms the Angel passes out, head lolling against Brad’s neck. And as he sleeps, oblivious, his tattered wings vanish


	6. Six

He wakes up to the hum of a fluorescent light above him. The starched, white on white of a hospital ward. His mouth is dry and when he opens it to speak his lips crack and bleed until all he can taste is the copper of his own blood.

 

He doesn’t know why he woke up. Why couldn’t he just sleep forever? Why does he have to face this?

 

The doctors and nurses surrounding his bed hone in on him the second he moves his head so the lights don’t burn his eyes. They’re asking, are you okay? They want to know, do you remember what happened?

 

Of course he remembers. He fell from Heaven then kept right on falling.

 

They need to do tests, they need to sample DNA. They need to treat him. He just nods absently. Who cares anyway? He knows he should probably be less detached about all of this but he just can’t believe this has happened. It hasn’t sunken in.

 

So he lets them raise his legs, strapping him into stirrups and spreading them. It hurts. It fucking hurts. And once they’re done they ask him if he can stand for the police photos.

 

“They need to see your body,” the doctor tells him, “so if you could just take off your gown.”

 

Chester gets up but doesn’t move, remains standing frozen in place until the doctors untie the sides of his hospital gown and slip it over his head. He poses for the photos, front, side, back, side. The flash whirring. The most fucked up photo shoot ever.

 

They send him a therapist to speak to but every time he opens his mouth nothing comes out. He wants to give them a detailed account but when he thinks about it he feels nauseous. He feels dirty in a way he never imagined he could feel. And he sort of wishes the guy had killed him. Put him in a coma. Anything.

 

Anything but this.

 

He starts to talk but suddenly all he can do is cry. He feels completely numb but all he can do is sob. The sounds are heartbreaking to hear. He curls up into the foetal position and sobs into his hands.

 

Eventually the therapist leaves and the doctors come back. They give him a sedative and it’s as if his tears have dried up. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, listens to the light as it hums.

 

***

 

After that comes Brad and he’s crying and he’s so fucking sorry. But Chester can’t even muster up the energy to be even remotely affected by his tears.

 

Brad takes a seat beside the bed and takes Chester’s hand in his own, “God,” he says. Folks always talk to God when they don’t really know what to say. “Jesus,” he mumbles, “I thought I was going to lose you. I didn’t know what had happened. A-and your wings were bleeding and you were crying…”

 

Chester says nothing, just stares at their joined hands blankly.

 

“The rest of the band wants to come visit. Everybody is so worried. And the big cheeses at Warner are getting onto the cops to find the bastard who did this to you. What were you doing out there on your own anyway?” He rambles.

 

Chester shrugs; scared he’ll cry again if he speaks.

 

Brad reaches out to tenderly stroke his hair. Chester flinches instinctively and Brad almost pulls away but doesn’t, running his fingers gently and slowly through the red locks. The Angel relaxes eventually and closes his eyes as the tears begin.

 

“I can’t believe this happened to you.”

 

Chester wants to say, me either. I fucking trusted your race and they did this to me. Who the fuck do I trust now? Can I trust you, Brad?

 

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while and I guess now is as good a time as any,” Brad almost whispers, laying his head on the pillow beside Chester’s and running his thumb over the Angel’s scraped knuckles. “I really like you, Chester,” Brad says in that cheesy romance novel kind of way.

 

Chester opens his eyes and stares down to the bottom of the bed, not sure what to say.

 

“I think I might actually be in love with you but I don’t know. And I know you’re not going to feel the same way or anything but I just want you to know how much I care about you and that I’m here for you. I’m going to help.”

 

Neither of them know what ‘help’ means. What can anybody possibly say to make this okay? Brad just keeps on blaming himself and saying that he was stupid, so fucking stupid not to follow sooner.

 

Eventually Chester clears his throat and whispers, “It’s not your fault.”

 

He turns away so Brad can’t see him cry and, eventually, he falls into a sleep filled with nightmares of monsters hiding in the shadows and demons with teeth as sharp as razors tearing out his throat.

 

And as he lies in the darkness dying there’s Brad clutching at his bloody hands saying, “I love you.”

 

***

 

Rapists are just another part of Lucifer’s soul let loose and Chester knows it. Lucifer doesn’t have to even know these people, doesn’t even have to come into direct contact with them. He’s in the air everywhere humans go waiting to be breathed in. Tiny particles of evil.

 

Thank God for abortions, because all those rape victims who get pregnant with their attacker’s baby well, they’re pretty much giving pure evil a home in their womb.

 

Angels aren’t immune from this but they can fight it. It’s all about choice. They all know very well what will become of them if they succumb to the evil.

 

And Chester just lies there thinking; why the fuck should I even bother to fight?

 

***

 

When his friends come to visit they don’t know where to look or what to say. Mostly they hover by his bedside awkwardly, out of place. Brad sits by his bed and flicks through the TV stations but the only channels the hospital can really get are broadcasting news and it’s so depressing.

 

Looters and vandals have broken into stores and homes left destroyed by a hurricane somewhere miles away from here. Some celebrity who was famous and sexy yesterday is dead from AIDS today. A loving father was shot dead in a racist attack in New York. A mad man has torn through a school in England with a sawn off shotgun.

 

Everywhere is the devastation and corruption that Lucifer has brought. Heaven used to be in some sort of control. The powers that be had a hold on the fallen Angel but nobody talked about. It was some big secret that nobody knew anything about, really. But they were in control, and Lucifer could stay on earth as long as he danced the dance they wanted him to.

 

But now…now Hell has risen to power. And everybody knows that there’s no ‘powers that be’ down there, just idiots in charge.

 

Still, rather him than anybody else. If this hadn’t happened to him it would have been Mike or Joe or Rob or Dave or, even worse, Brad.

 

Bless Brad. Brad who still thinks those three simple words mean anything. In today’s society do they really mean anything more than ‘I’m sorry’? They’re everybody’s perfect apology for everything bad they’ve done to their spouse or girlfriend or boyfriend or who the fuck ever.

 

Chester wants to laugh at how worried everybody looks and how tense the room is. There’s only Brad not looking completely uncomfortable. He can’t keep it in anymore and sniggers quietly.

 

“What?” Brad asks, confused.

 

But Chester can’t even speak for laughing. It’s all so fucking funny he can’t even speak. He knows this is just the beginning, that this kind of shit will happen more and fucking more.

 

“Nothing,” Chester giggles, “I just can’t believe this.”

 

Everybody stares, nonplussed, as he laughs hysterically. But soon his laughter dies down and turns into sobs. Why can’t he stop fucking crying? Why can’t he stop feeling sorry for himself?

 

He can’t hear much for his own tortured sobs but Brad mumbles something and he becomes aware of the others leaving, the door closing softly behind them.

 

“I want go home, Brad, please let me go home.” Chester cries, burying his face in the pillow. “I hate it here a-and I just have to get out. Take me h-home.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Brad whispers, taking Chester’s hands in his, “tomorrow they say I can take you home. But you have to speak to a therapist first.”

 

That turns out to be exactly as torturous as Chester had thought it would be. Brad had assured him it would be easy, that talking and getting his emotions off his chest would really help him. But then Rob came in and said the exact opposite.

 

Rob, he hasn’t had a drink in two years. A recovering alcoholic, he calls himself. Chester asks why he is recovering, why not recovered? And Rob just tells him that it never ends. Addiction never ever goes away.

 

But Rob has done the therapy, talked about his neglectful, junkie parents and relived the abuse he suffered under the heavy hand of his father. He tells Chester he wants to reassure him and tell him it’ll be fine, but he knows how hard it is. He warns him not to be surprised if therapy just drags out the pain.

 

Chester doesn’t want to go but he does. For Brad. Brad keeps telling him that he should be doing it for himself but he doesn’t want to. He just wants to get this chapter of his life over with a move on. There’s so much to do; an album to write, a tour to start. But every time he brings this up everybody says, “Yes but one thing at a time, Chester.”

 

So he sits in the over-stuffed arm chair in the therapist’s office, staring at the doctor staring back at him.

 

“How are you feeling today, Chester?”

 

“Okay,” he says, “I’m looking forward to going home tomorrow.”

 

“You live with a friend, don’t you?”

 

Chester nods, “Yeah, Brad. He uh…he told me he loves me.”

 

“Are you partners?”

 

“No.” He replies with no intentions to elaborate at all.

 

“How are you feeling about what happened to you?”

 

Chester shrugs, “Betrayed,” he says, “but that’s my own stupid fault for going into an alley at night isn’t it?”

 

The doctor asks questions that Chester doesn’t have an in depth or remotely complex answer to. This is getting them nowhere. He stares out of the window and daydreams about Heaven.

 

The shrink is babbling on about communicating his emotions to his friends and Chester just interrupts him, “How do you cure homesickness when you can’t go home?”

 

“Why can’t you go home, Chester?”

 

“That isn’t an answer now is it, doc?” The Angel sneers. He takes a deep breath, “I can’t go back there. I just can’t. But I miss it like fucking crazy. And I was just getting over it but now this...”

 

Now an ache that won’t go away because he’s  _scared_ , damn it. Simple things make him flinch or jump and he hates it. He hates how the rest of Linkin Park look at him. He hates how he feels.

 

He leaves the therapist’s office with sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medication.

 

And a headache.

 

***

 

Brad comes by the next day with clothes in a rucksack for him to put on. Chester, by this point he’s pretty wasted on the medication the therapist has given him and smiles widely, “Hi!” He beams, reaching out to Brad as he puts the bag down.

 

“Hey,” Brad smiles warmly, “I see they gave you pills.”

 

“For my anxiety. Humans. You humans make me nervous.”

 

Brad has no idea what to say so he takes a seat and pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans along with fresh underwear and socks from the bag, setting them down beside where Chester sits on his bed.

 

“I’m happy to be going home. Well, not  _home_. Like, not to  _Heaven_ , but home with you, Bradface. I’m happy to be going to your home.”

 

The nurse, who was previously waiting with discharge forms for Chester to sign, hands them over to Brad saying, “I’ll give you a minute. Just hand them into reception when you’re done, okay?”

 

She smiles and leaves, hurrying out of the room. Brad doesn’t blame her. Chester looks almost crazed as he blinks and smiles, kicking his legs like an excited child.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Ches’?”

 

Chester shrugs, “Dunno. Please just. Let’s just get out of here, okay? Please, please take me home.”

 

Brad nods toward the clothes spread out on the bed with a tiny smile, “Get dressed.”

 

Chester doesn’t waste any time. He pulls off his hospital gown and hops down off the bed, shivering when his feet touch the cold floor. By now Brad has already had a complete eyeful and is staring at his hands blushing, bright red. The Angel hops about pulling on his clean clothes and sits back on the bed to pull his socks on.

 

“Did you bring me shoes?” He asks, sticking his foot in Brad’s face.

 

Brad jumps and reaches back into the bag, dropping a pair of Chucks onto the floor beside the bed. He holds the forms out along with the pen and stammers, “Y-you have to sign these.”

 

Chester laces up his sneakers and nods, humming to a tune then bursts into song, “Oooh baby do you know that’s worth? Oooh Heaven is a place on Earth. They say in Heaven, love comes first…” he pauses, looking thoughtful, “that’s not true,” he points out, “That isn’t what we say.”

 

“Please just sign the discharge papers?”

 

“Fine,” Chester snaps and goes back to humming, signing his name with a flourish at the bottom of each form and handing them back to Brad.

 

They leave the hospital room side by side, Chester swinging the empty bag between them and Brad clutching the forms in his sweaty hand.

 

“Bradface?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Did you mean what you said the other day? About how much you like me?”

 

This is the first time it’s been brought up since he said it and suddenly Brad feels sick to his stomach. He ducks his head and nods, “Yeah,” he whispers, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole.

 

These feelings are so new to him. Before he met Chester he’d never even considered himself to be remotely gay, was a big fan of women. But now the Angel is all he can think about, and when he saw him lying in the alley bleeding and crying his heart  _broke_.

 

Maybe it’s because they’ve been pretending to be dating. Maybe it’s because Chester is so amazing – excited by things that humans don’t find remotely interesting anymore. Maybe it’s the wings. Whatever it is Brad can’t pretend he feels nothing. And if Chester doesn’t return those feelings then he’s convinced himself that it’s okay.

 

And now he can’t breathe.

 

Chester studies him as they stop at the reception desk to hand in the discharge forms and Brad feels himself blushing again.

 

“Cool,” The Angel says, smiling, before he turns away and disappears outside.

 

Brad hurries after him, grabbing his wrist before he heads in the wrong direction. Chester flinches and pulls away as if he’s been burned and stares, terrified.

 

“I’m sorry,” Brad murmurs, panicking, “I’m so sorry, Chester, I didn’t mean to.” He reaches out to him but has his hand batted away.

 

“Please don’t touch me,” Chester whispers and steps back. “Where is the car?”

 

“I-I’ll show you.”

 

They walk in silence to the car and ride home under a cloud of tension. As they pull up outside Chester draws his knees up to his chest and starts to cry. He rests his head against the window and whimpers quietly.

 

Brad unfastens his belt then unfastens Chester’s. He climbs out of the car and heads around to the passenger side, opening the door and kneeling down beside his distraught friend, “Come on, Ches’,” he whispers, “we’re home now.”

 

Chester can’t stop crying, sobbing like he’s in agony. Brad gingerly reaches out and wraps his arms around him, giving him plenty of time to pull away but he never does. They sit there, clinging to each other desperately for a long time.

 

Eventually the Angel’s sobs die down and he simply holds onto Brad, panting and trying to catch his breath.

 

Brad says nothing. He simply scoops Chester up in his arms and lifts him from the car, closing the door with his foot. He carries the exhausted Angel toward the house, opening the front door awkwardly and kicking it inside and closing it after him.

 

He nearly falls down the stairs but he makes it, and carries Chester into the bedroom, laying him on the covers. He sits down beside him and strokes his hair softly. Chester sits up and wraps his arms around Brad, forcing Brad to lie down with him. They curl up with each other and Chester sighs contently.

 

“How are you feeling?” Brad whispers.

 

“Sssh,” Chester replies, shimmying closer and pressing his lips to Brad’s.

 

The kiss is short lived and tender. Fleeting but loving. And Chester shuffles down and clings to Brad’s shirt, pressing his face to his chest as he dozes off to sleep.

 

And Brad watches over him through the night.


	7. Seven

Days pass, people Chester refuses to face come and go getting the same story “He’s tired,” or “He’s in the shower,” or “He’s working on some lyrics and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

 

Mike comes back nearly every day. One afternoon Brad manages to coax Chester downstairs for something to eat and they sit in comfortable silence eating the only thing Brad really knows how to cook – eggs – when the door bell rings.

 

Brad doesn’t even get a chance to blink and Chester is gone, his food abandoned as he flees upstairs to hide. It’s the same thing every time. He locks himself in the bathroom and stays there until which ever kind hearted visitor it is this time has gone and he hears their car pulling away from the house.

 

This time, when Brad opens the door, he has a great explanation for Mike. He made lunch and it didn’t agree with Chester so he’s in bed. It makes sense. But his friend pushes past him and into the house.

 

“Where is he?”

 

Brad frowns, “Keep your voice down, Mike. He’s upstairs…we ate lunch and – ”

 

“And he heard me coming and ran a mile. I get it.” Mike rolls his eyes and kicks off his shoes, leaving them in the hallway and heading straight for the stairs.

 

“Mike!” Brad squeaks, hurrying after him.

 

Mike spots the only closed door, the bathroom, and knocks on it, “Chester I know you’re in there. But it’s just me and I just want to talk.”

 

There’s silence for a long time and Brad goes to say “I told you so,” but then the lock slides across and the door opens just a crack.

 

“Can I come in?” Mike asks in almost a whisper.

 

Chester hesitates but steps back, opening the door to let Mike inside. Then the door closes and Brad is left standing in the hallway in the dark. Chester has avoided talking to him since the day he came home from the hospital. Sometimes they manage small talk but he clams up fast enough when it comes to anything he doesn’t want to discuss.

 

Like what that fucking kiss meant.

 

Brad trudges downstairs and scrapes the plates, washing up and then putting them away. Anything to kill the time.

 

***

 

Mike sits on the floor with his back resting against the bathroom door opposite Chester who sits on the closed lid of the toilet seat with his arms wrapped around his abdomen self consciously.

 

“Am I out of the band for this?” Chester murmurs.

 

“No way! No. You’re not. You’ve got us all worried sick, though. Brad worst of all.”

 

Chester sighs and nods. He knows he shouldn’t be treating Brad the way he is but he can’t help it. It’s not that he blames him, but he still doesn’t exactly buy the whole ‘I love you’ shtick. Why would anybody love him now in the state he is?

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I just don’t know how to…I don’t know what to…”

 

Mike gets up and shuffles closer slowly so as not to startle him, “Ssh. It’s okay I know. You just have to tell him every now and then that you’re okay. Or he’ll have a break down. Anyway,” he says, smiling, “I came to give you some exciting news.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“A certain somebody called Jeff and told him that once we have our album sorted and everything they’d love to have us as support on their tour at the end of the year. And since we have half of the album already written and ready to record it looks like this could be a reality.”

 

Chester grins, “Really? Who is it?”

 

“Velvet Revolver. Scott Weiland wants us. Looks like it really is  _who_  you know not  _what_  you know.” Mike beams excitedly.

 

But suddenly the smile is wiped clean from Chester’s face.

 

***

 

Chester doesn’t show his face until some time after Mike leaves. He drifts downstairs and out onto the back porch where Brad is leaning on the railing staring out across the yard.

 

“We can’t tour with him,” is the first thing Brad says when he becomes aware of Chester’s presence.

 

“The guys won’t let us pull out of this. Besides, maybe it’ll be okay.”

 

“How will it be okay? This is Lucifer we’re talking about. I thought you hated him!”

 

He does. But this is an opportunity that he can’t ruin for the band. This could really make them big and he can’t take that away. Besides, they’re just the support act. They’ll go on stage, do their thing, then be back in the hotel or on the bus before Scott even knows what’s going on. Somehow they can make this work.

 

“Mike was so excited,” Chester mumbles, “and I’ve never seen him so happy. What reason could I give him or the other guys as to why I won’t do this?”

 

Brad shrugs and sighs wearily. He looks so tired. Chester doesn’t know how he didn’t notice the bags under his bloodshot eyes before.

 

“You need to sleep, Brad.”

 

“I do sleep.”

 

“No you don’t, you watch me sleep. I know you have nightmares.”

 

He does. Nightmares where he is kneeling in a greasy puddle behind a dumpster in a dark alley, clutching handfuls of bloody feathers.

 

“I’m worried about you,” Brad says, “I’m just really worried.”

 

Chester glances at him then looks away and toward the bottom of the garden, “I’m not going to tell you I’m okay. I’m not. I’m a jumpy fucking mess and I hate it. I thought I was so much stronger than this and I feel like I’ve let everybody down. But I just need time to pull myself together. I’m not going to leave you, I promise.”

 

When he turns to face him he meets Brad’s eyes filled with tears ready to spill.

 

“Don’t you think we’ve done enough crying?” Chester smiles sadly.

 

“It’s just the touring thing now too. I know how big a break this is but is it safe?”

 

“I’ll protect you, Brad.”

 

And they both ignore the fact that he wouldn’t be able to save Brad if he had to, that he can’t even save himself. Instead they lace their fingers together and go back to staring at the yard.

 

“You’re a shitty gardener,” Chester states flatly, raising an eyebrow at the plants which were probably once beautiful but are now choked to death by weeds and nettles.

 

“And I take it you’re not, then.”

 

“I didn’t say that. I’ve never had a garden. I lived in an apartment block which was basically a filing cabinet for Angels,” Chester smirks. “I just think you could make this look really pretty.”

 

Brad snorts, “You do it if you want but I’m not. Gardening plays havoc with my cuticles.”

 

“That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Chester laughs.

 

Brad goes to defend himself but he’s mesmerised by Chester’s happy, smiling face so he doesn’t. “I’m going out tomorrow after work,” he says, “and buying you a trowel and gardening gloves.”

 

Chester looks genuinely excited at the prospect and kisses Brad’s cheek, “Thank you.”

 

“You’re very welcome.”

 

***

 

Chester gardens at night under the harsh glare of the security light someone fitted long before Brad moved in. He says it’s better at night, more peaceful. Brad isn’t sure how he does it – goes to the studio all day and sings until his throat is raw, re-recording the shitty demos with the best equipment known to man, then comes home and goes straight to the garden without any sleep.

 

Brad tries to join him, once, heading out to the garden with a cup of coffee and sitting on the porch steps to watch. He probably lasted half an hour before he fell asleep, waking up to Chester standing over him with a trowel in his hand.

 

“Go to bed,” He smirks.

 

Brad yawns and nods, not even answering him. He gets onto his hands and knees, crawling inside and upstairs to bed. Often times he wakes up alone but on this particular morning he wakes up with a familiar wing in his face when the alarm goes off.

 

***

 

The recording is going well, so far. Mike bosses everybody around and everybody just does as they’re told, taking time out of their schedules later to complain about his major PMS issues. Chester is the only one who doesn’t complain.

 

Doesn’t say much, really, unless it’s to Mike.

 

Brad tells himself not to get jealous, tells himself that Chester  _has_  to be close to Mike for their lyrics to work. They _have_  to relate.

 

But still, he thinks they’re both assholes and sits in the studio tuning his guitar sullenly whilst Mike and Chester have another little heart to heart in the next room. Dave sits next to him and strings his bass slowly, silently.

 

“Just say what you have to say, Dave,” Brad smirks.

 

“I just wanted to ask how Chester is doing. He seems like he’s really pulling himself together recently.”

 

He is, it’s true. He doesn’t run away when the door bell rings anymore, doesn’t flinch at every touch. But he still won’t spend time with Brad unless he  _really_  has to. At first Brad had thought it was just Chester taking time to heal himself by being away from people, but then he saw the way he acted around Mike, and felt somewhat disheartened.

 

“Are  _you_  okay?” Dave asks, setting his bass down and shifting his chair

closer to Brad’s so they’re sitting side by side.

 

He shrugs and realises, aside from Chester, nobody has asked him that yet. He smiles weakly and looks up, “I guess so,” he says. “But sometimes he’ll get scared and hide in the bathroom and it’s horrible to see. He  _is_ getting better, I know that. But everything is so hard. For the both of us. He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

 

He wipes away the tears from his eyes and takes a shaky breath. Dave reaches out and claps him on the back reassuringly, “Of course he doesn’t talk to you – he lives with you.”

 

Yeah, that makes loads of fucking sense.

 

“What I mean is…if he confides in you…he has to face you every day. And if he tells you something he thinks will disgust you or repel you, he’s not going to tell you, but he’ll keep it for someone he doesn’t mind not being close to, you know?

 

“Anyway,” he continues, “You ought to be excited about the album. Jeff says he’s really,  _really_  pleased with it so far.”

 

Jeff isn’t the only one. They’ve written so much stuff they could easily make four albums from it. Soon they’ll be stuck with the task of narrowing things down. Chester, at every chance, reminds them that he wants  _Crawling_  to be on the album very, very badly. It was, after all, the song that got him into the band in the first place.

 

Some of Chester and Mike’s lyrics are amazing and make Brad think about all the things Chester won’t say to him, to anybody, to himself.

 

_At the core I’ve forgotten. In the middle of my thoughts, taken far from my safety, the picture is there. The memory won’t escape me but why should I care?_

 

***

 

They’re hoping to get some vocals and drum fills that just aren’t quite right sorted this week. They’re hoping to mix the album soon too. They also need to pick a name for the damn thing. There is so much fucking stuff left to get done.

But time freezes when Scott Weiland steps into the studio.

 

Chester, he’s in the vocal booth going over some vocals parts he wasn’t happy with and his face turns to stone. He slips off the cans and steps away from the microphone, almost cowering.

 

Scott introduces himself to the band, makes small talk for a while before he notices Chester hiding in the booth. He smirks and leans over the control desk, pushing the button that activates the microphone so he can be heard beyond the sound proof glass.

 

“Hello, Chester.” He says, smiling broadly.

 

Chester fidgets, shifts his weight uncomfortably, “Hi.”

 

“Long time no see,” Scott sighs and he almost sounds remorseful. Brad’s blood is boiling at the way he is intimidating Chester, making him terrified.

 

“Yeah,” the Angel murmurs, “yeah long time no see. How are you?”

 

“Now why don’t you come out of there and talk to me?”

 

“We have a lot of work left to do, Scott. Maybe later.”

 

“Maybe we could go for a drink tonight at Aurora. At nine.”

 

“Maybe we could,” Chester says coldly and slips the cans back on, adjusting the microphone a little and glancing at Mike who seems to have completely lost the ability to function and stares blankly for a moment before nodding and fumbling with some equipment, staring the song up again.

 

Scott turns away from the desk and meets Brad’s angry stare, “What’d I do?”

 

“Nothing. We just have a lot of work left to do, is all.” Brad says.

 

“You sound like Chester. You  _must_  be fucking him.”

 

It’s all Brad can do not to punch the fucker square between the eyes. Behind Scott, Joe sniggers and grins, “He knows you better than we do, Brad.”

 

Brad rolls his eyes and gives Joe the finger, spinning on his heel and heading outside for fresh air, leaving the sound of Chester’s almost anguished screaming behind him. He doesn’t even hear Scott creep up behind him but he sure as hell feels the freezing cold hand clamp down on his shoulder, dragging him back.

 

“Have I  _upset_  you, Brad? Because you’re not very fucking friendly.”

 

He grits his teeth and glares, “Don’t think you’re just going to walk in and steal Chester away from everything he believes in, okay? You want him then you have to deal with me too.”

 

Scott looks intrigued, cocks his head to the side and strokes his jaw, “What is it that you know?”

 

“I know what you are. I know what he is. And I just don’t want you thinking you’re going to get exactly what you want from all of this.”

 

Scott tilts his head back and laughs loudly, his wings spreading out behind him. They’re black as the night. He glares at Brad coldly and pulls a pack of cigarettes out from the pocket of his jeans, which are barely clinging to his thin hips, “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m willing to fight you for it. Both of you. And don’t think I won’t.”

 

He lights up the cigarette and takes a long, deep drag, exhaling a stream of acrid smoke in Brad’s face. As the guitarist stands there coughing and wafting away the cloud of smoke Scott disappears, wings vanishing as if they were never there.

 

***

 

When Brad gets back to the studio Mike grabs him, shaking him roughly. “Where the fuck did you go?”

 

“Huh? Just for some air.”

 

“You fucking stink of cigarettes you big asshole. A cigarette break is nowhere near as important as this.”

 

“As what?”

 

“When Scott left Chester just stormed out, he’s locked himself in the bathroom, and nobody has  _any_  idea what to do.”

 

Brad stops listening and races out of the room, speeding down the corridors toward the bathroom. He resists the urge to bang on the door and instead presses against it, “Ches’?” He calls out, “Ches’ open up it’s just me.”

 

“R-really just you?”

 

“Yeah. There’s nobody else here,” he says, shooing away Rob and Dave who are waiting beside him. They leave obediently, heading back into the studio.

 

The door opens a crack and Chester peers out, his eyes are wide with fear and bright red from crying. When he sees nobody but Brad he opens it fully and lets him in.

 

“What is it with you and bathrooms?” Brad smiles, trying to make light of the situation.

 

“Don’t,” Chester murmurs, curling up on the floor beside the basins. “Fuck. I thought I could do this. I really thought I’d be okay. But seeing him there…”

 

Brad decides not to mention the confrontation in the hallway or the threats. Chester doesn’t need to hear that. He wraps an arm around the shaking body beside him, pulling him close and kissing his hair, “We don’t have to do this.”

 

Chester sniffs, laughs and wipes away his tears, “Yes, we do. And I’ll manage. Just…it just…I got scared is all. Anybody would.”

 

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me, you should know that by now. And yeah, I was fucking terrified.”

 

“What are we going to tell the guys?”

 

Brad has no idea. He doesn’t even care about them, right now. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Maybe just that you’re having a bad day. They’re not going to be mad with you, Chester.”

 

“I know that, it’s just so pathetic. I should be looking up to this guy. They think he’s just a big rock star.”

 

“Maybe we should tell them what he really is? Tell them he’s a monster.”

 

Chester looks thoughtful for a moment but shakes his head eventually, “No,” he

says, “no we can’t. Not only would they not believe us but…well…that’s it.

They’d never ever believe us. And if they did I’d have to explain myself. And they’d send me away. I just know it.”

 

“Send you away?”

 

And suddenly his head is full of images. Bloody towels and sterilised tools, knives and saws. And feathers all over the floor. Scientific experiments to find out what really  _is_  out there.

 

Chester nods and shivers against Brad, burying his face in his shirt, “We can’t tell them.”

 

“Okay,” Brad whispers, “okay.”

 

***

 

When Chester gets back into the studio you wouldn’t think anything had gone wrong. He smiles happily and apologises for making a big scene earlier. It’s easy enough to see that nobody is sure what to say so they just get up after a moment of awkward hesitation and hug him. Brad joins in too, kissing his cheek.

 

Chester giggles like a school girl and turns his head to kiss him. Joe says “Ew cooties,” and somebody else clears their throat, amused. Brad would usually pull away and smack them both in the nuts but Chester has his tongue in his mouth.

 

Suddenly, there is no blood left in his head and his knees feel weak. This could be his very first kiss. It might as well be. It makes anybody who has ever kissed him in the past seem completely obsolete.

 

And then he’s gone and he’s sitting on the couch beside Mike flicking through a legal pad of lyrics. Brad isn’t sure how long he stands, frozen to the spot, but Rob waving a hand in front of his face and whistling at him sure snaps him out of it.

 

“Sorry,” He says and he’s sure he still hasn’t managed to wipe the dopey smile off his face.

 

Rob laughs, “Try to be professional now, Brad.”

 

And he does try. Chester doesn’t act as if anything is wrong all day, as if anything has happened. And Brad almost completely forgets about the encounter with Scott until they get home and Chester heads straight upstairs to shower.

 

“You’re showering before you go into the garden? What’s the point in that you obsessive compulsive weirdo.” Brad laughs.

 

“No, I’m showering before I go out for drinks with Scott.”

 

Oh. Yeah. That.

 

“You’re…you’re really going then?”

 

Chester doesn’t reply, and Brad sits on the edge of the bed where he has spread out a black shirt and black jeans and red boxers to wear. He smoothes a crease from the shirt nervously and waits for Chester to re-appear.

 

The bathroom door opens and Chester steps out in a cloud of steam with a towel wrapped around his waist. He smiles briefly and steps into the room, over to the bed. “Yes,” he says, “I’m going. I have to go.”

 

“No you don’t.”

 

He spins around and glares, “Would  _you_  cancel on Lucifer?” He snaps, flustered.

 

“Sorry,” Brad mumbles, staring at his hands. He sits on the bed for a long time before he realises Chester is standing staring at him, hands on his hips.

 

“Do you  _have_  to watch me get dressed?”

 

Brad just gets up silently and storms out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him and leaving Chester alone to dress for his date with the Devil.

 

Chester uses Brad’s expensive cologne, the one that  _had_  to have been a gift because he isn’t the kind of person who just goes out and buys things like that for himself. He uses Brad’s ancient hair gel, the tub he hasn’t touched since he started growing his hair and he can’t use it anymore but hoards pointless crap like there’s no tomorrow.

 

Once he is dressed he stands in front of the mirror and runs a hand over his shirt, brushing away lint. And it’s only then that he realises he’s shaking, tiny tremors of nervousness. He tries to shake himself out of it before he heads downstairs to face Brad.

 

Chester finds him in the garden. He watches in silence as Brad pulls out the weeds that have choked a fuchsia to death. He puts down the trowel he was using and sits back on his heels and it is only then that he notices Chester standing watching.

 

“You look great,” he says.

 

“Thanks. I was just going to call a cab.”

 

“I’ll drive you there, don’t worry about it.”

 

Brad gets to his feet, throwing down the dirty gloves and brushing away soil from his jeans. He brushes past Chester as he heads inside, grabbing his car keys from the counter in the kitchen and waiting, impatiently, at the front door.

 

“Please don’t be like this. Don’t be mad at me,” Chester insists.

 

“I’m not mad. I’m terrified. Absolutely terrified.”

 

“I’m a big boy, Brad. I can handle this.”

 

Brad doesn’t want to doubt him but it’s easy enough when Lucifer is involved. He doesn’t say anything, opens the door for the Angel to leave and steps out after him.

 


	8. Eight

The club is dark despite all of the metal and glass decorating the walls. It’s easy enough to find Scott, though. He stands out like a sore thumb, lounging in a booth with girls on either side of him and one under the table. Chester sneers.

 

“You made it,” Scott says, eyes half lidded. That could be the blowjob he’s getting or the blow job he just did.

 

“I made it.” Chester murmurs. Nobody heard him over the bass of the Mötley Crüe record that is playing. Dancing on glass, Chester thinks, just to keep his mind off of the situation.

 

Scott, he’s busy shooing away the girls all around him. They disappear, looking less than pleased. But they soon latch onto another coked out rock star in the next booth over. He pats the space next to him stretching his long, leather clad legs out in front of him. “C’mere.” He drawls.

 

As Chester takes a seat as far away from Scott as possible Vince Neil sings in the background; if you dance with the devil your day will come to pay.

 

A barmaid drifts past with a tray of shots, offering them to Scott and Chester. The Angel shakes his head and smiles politely but Scott beckons her closer, whispers in her ear and she leaves the whole tray behind for them.

 

“Have a drink,” Scott says as he knocks back a purple shot.

 

“No thanks.”

 

“Now, now. That’s no way to party, is it? We came to drink,” Scott hisses, sliding the tray toward him, “so fucking drink.”

 

Chester does as he is told, picking out a green shot which tastes like lime but burns his mouth, his throat and all the way down to form a warm pool in his stomach. He wants to puke but sits back with his eyes closed. “Why did you want me to come here?”

 

“Just for a chat. And whilst you’re here we could discuss that human you’re boning. Brad, isn’t it?”

 

“I’m not boning him.”

 

“Ooh well can I?”

 

“Fuck you. Leave him alone.”

 

“Why are you such a human lover?” Scott laughs, “Hell, I thought it was a human who raped you.”

 

There might as well not be another person in the room. There might as well be no music. Because all Chester can hear is the whoosh of the blood through his head and his own angered breathing.

 

Scott hasn’t stopped talking, “Why defend them?” He asks, “They’ll just hurt you again. They’ll just humiliate you.”

 

“They’re not all bad,” Chester protests weakly.

 

Scott slides along the seat and grabs a shot, pressing the rim of the glass to Chester’s lips until he opens his mouth and drinks it, “Yes they are,” he says, “and that includes Brad.”

 

“No,” Chester leans back, away from the other Angel. “Brad isn’t like the others.”

 

There’s a voice in his head saying, yes he is. He knows it’s Scott, he knows it’s his influence. But the voice keeps saying, he’ll hurt you too. You haven’t fucked him yet, the voice says, what if he doesn’t want to wait and takes that from you?

 

Scott’s lips press against his neck, then his cheek, then his breath ghosts his ear, “Humans are not worth it,” he whispers, feeding Chester another shot. “They don’t deserve you.”

 

No. They don’t. Mike who made a pass at him hours after meeting him, Joe who makes everything he says into a joke, Dave who is barely interested in him, Rob who thinks he knows him when he really has no idea. And Brad…Brad who says “I love you” when he really means “I’m going to keep you.”

 

“They don’t know you like I do,” Scott whispers, “they don’t know how powerful you are.”

 

It crosses his mind that he’s being brainwashed, there’s something in the drinks. This isn’t right. This isn’t who he is. But there’s a darkness rising inside of him and he shivers, violently.

 

“Go home. Show Brad what you’re capable of.”

 

“Okay,” Chester says, “Yeah. I will.”

 

“Good boy,” Scott beams. “But first! More drinks,” He puts up a hand, beckoning another waitress over to their table with a tray laden with drinks.

 

***

 

He’s beyond drunk by the time he gets home and Brad opens the door before he even rings the bell. “Jesus,” He says, “I was so worried about you.”

 

Chester smiles, “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m fine.”

 

Brad steps back to let him inside and closes the door after him, locking it. As he turns to say something Chester pushes him up against it and kisses him, running his tongue along his teeth.

 

He is surprised when Brad pushes him away, gently but firmly, “You’re drunk. Let’s not do this now.”

 

“No,” Chester says, almost demandingly, “let’s do it now.” He kisses Brad again, desperately, and this time neither of them breaks away. Brad backs him up, guiding him along the hall as they kiss.

 

“Bedroom?” He asks, gasping when Chester ducks his head to suck on his neck, kissing the red mark he leaves behind.

 

“Bedroom,” Chester nods, biting Brad’s earlobe roughly.

 

They both fall, more than once, on the stairs. Their kisses are desperate and awkward, their teeth meeting more than once but Chester refuses to let Brad pull away, to let him stop. When they make it to the bedroom Chester steps back, “I want to see you,” he says, breathing heavily.

 

Brad can’t deny him what he wants and timidly pulls off his shirt, dumping it behind him. He unfastens his jeans, pulling them down and stepping out of them.

 

“All of you,” Chester says.

 

Nervously Brad lets his boxers fall to the floor and kicks them away. He stands, frozen under Chester’s close scrutiny. Shifts his weight awkwardly, “Now it’s your turn.”

 

Chester smiles widely and unbuttons his shirt, removes his jeans and boxers. He’s beautiful. His skin luminescent, un-marred alabaster skin head to toe with his hair standing out like fresh blood. He steps towards Brad and takes his hand, leading him to the bed and pushing him down onto it.

 

He kisses his way down Brad’s body, dipping his tongue into his navel before continuing down. He presses a gentle kiss to his inner thigh, wrapping a hand around Brad’s growing erection, stroking him to full hardness.

 

Brad moans and clutches the sheets in his hands, “Ches’,” he whispers desperately, “Please.”

 

Neither of them know what he is pleading for, but when Chester wraps his mouth around his cock deep throating him, Brad couldn’t plead for anything even if he wanted to. The air is sucked out of his lungs as Chester hollows his cheeks and begins to bob his head slowly, one hand cupping Brad’s balls.

 

“Fuck. Ah fuck.”

 

Chester hums around him and increases the pace, moving one finger down to circle Brad’s entrance. He pushes the finger into him and the man below him gasps and groans in discomfort. That is until Chester crooks his finger, brushing it repeatedly against his prostate.

 

This has Brad writhing desperately beneath him, crying out and moaning loudly. “S-stop!” He cries, pulling Chester away by the hair.

 

“Why?”

 

“I’m not ready to come yet,” He whispers, kissing Chester hard and reaching between them.

 

Chester flinches but it goes unnoticed for which he is glad. Brad wraps a hand around him and jerks him off slowly.

 

“I want to fuck you,” he murmurs huskily. “Can I?”

 

Brad hesitates, says, “I’ve never…I haven’t done this before.”

 

Chester doesn’t say; that makes this even better. Instead he kisses Brad slowly and whispers reassurance. “It’s okay,” he says, “I’ll go slow.” He gets up, disappearing into the bathroom to get the hand lotion he knows is in there.

 

When he returns Brad is resting on his elbows, watching him with hooded eyes as he saunters back over to the bed. He climbs up beside him and kisses his mouth, his neck, his chest. “Just relax,” he murmurs, coating three fingers in the lotion.

 

He pushes two fingers into Brad slowly, scissoring them inside of him until he is comfortable. “Tell me when,” Chester says.

 

Brad nods eventually, breathless, “Okay. I’m okay.”

 

Chester adds a third finger, kissing Brad’s face as he takes in a deep breath to calm himself. He removes his hand eventually and uses the lotion to coat his erection. “You ready?” He asks, not really caring.

 

Brad nods and braces himself as Chester pushes in with one smooth thrust. It hurts, it really hurts. But Chester looks amazing above him, his face tight with concentration. He pulls out slowly, thrusting back in. Brad grits his teeth and drops his head back, “Ah fuck,” he groans, rolling his hips down subconsciously. He reaches between them with one hand to jerk himself off in time with Chester’s movements.

 

The Angel adjusts his thrusts to hit Brad’s prostate dead on, making him cry out and arch hard against him. Encouraged, Chester increases the pace, fucking him harder with every thrust. He’s so close he can barely breathe, and as Brad tightens around him he comes with a cry.

 

His wings flex behind him and Brad gasps, “Ch-Chester,” he murmurs but then he’s shuddering, coming with a low moan, his nails digging hard into the skin of Chester’s shoulders.

 

They collapse against one another. Brad wants to say something but he can’t form the words.

 

And all around them white feathers fall as if somebody had ripped open a pillow. And in their place black ones can be seen, slick and dark as tar.

 

***

 

In his dreams Brad is drowning in a sea of black feathers. There’s somebody with him but he can’t see, can’t hear, and can’t breathe. The soft caress of the feathers disappears, suddenly, and is replaced by claws tearing through his flesh and grinding against his bones. Teeth, too, tear at his exposed skin, tear out his throat.

 

And then he sees his assailant. His hair red like a winter fire. The kind that destroy everything. The kind that tear through peoples’ homes and kill everything and everyone.

 

It’s Chester. And he smiles a smile of razor sharp teeth before he slashes sharp claws across Brad’s face.

 

***

 

Brad wakes up alone. Like the spot beside him where Chester once lay, he is cold. The first thing he realises is that he’s in pain and last night comes flooding back to him. From Chester’s date with Scott to the sex. It’s all he can think about. For so long he’d wanted it to happen, but not like that. It was supposed to be special and romantic. He should have known it wouldn’t be.

 

He doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to face the awkwardness that awaits him. He doesn’t know where Chester is and quite frankly doesn’t care. After a moment of lying in bed feeling very sorry for himself he gets up, pushing back the covers and padding into the bathroom to boil himself in the shower.

 

If things had gone how he’d planned Chester would have come home sober and sorry for going and Brad would have kissed him softly saying, “I forgive you.” They’d make their way upstairs and he’d lay Chester down on the bed, kissing him all the while.

 

They’d undress each other slowly, Chester still timid from his attack. But Brad wouldn’t mind because he’s scared, he’s never done this before and going slowly suits him just fine. Chester would push him onto his back and take over with gentle touches.

 

It wouldn’t be so much about getting off as exploring each other bodies and learning what the other likes. He’d run his fingers over Chester’s wings and kiss his neck when he arched his back.

 

He would love him. And be loved in return.

 

“Fuck,” he hisses when shampoo runs down his face into his eye. He scrubs it away frantically along with his dreams of a perfect first time. The water runs cold and he forces himself to get out.

 

He swallows hard as he dries himself off, dries his hair and gets dressed. Fuck. What is he supposed to do now?

 

***

 

Chester is on the back porch, smoking. Brad shivers as he steps outside. The sun has barely risen and it isn’t warm yet but, in the distance, he can see the fires blown in with the hot winds burn on endlessly like a beacon.

 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Brad says, desperate to start a conversation.

 

“Gotta have one vice.”

 

“Look…Chester, about last night…”

 

Chester interrupts him, stubbing out his cigarette against the porch railing and flicking it into the damp grass of the garden he cared for so dearly not two days ago, “You know what I dislike most about being here?” He asks.

 

Brad narrows his eyes.

 

“Well not  _here_. I don’t mean here with you. I mean here on Earth. The one thing I hate more than anything is your gravity.”

 

“I’m sure I’ve already apologised about that,” Brad murmurs.

 

“I miss flying,” Chester continues. “No wonder there is so much depression, so much sadness and weariness amongst humans. You’re literally trapped here.”

 

Of course everybody wants to fly. Who hasn’t had a dream where they’re just going about their regular daily routine and then they take off? They just let go of everything and fly away? Trouble is; in Brad’s dreams, the ones where he flies, he gets too close to the sun and his wings burn. And he falls to Earth in a ball of fire.

 

“I miss being free.”

 

“I thought you said Heaven was just a nine to five slog?”

 

Chester nods, staring at his hands, “I did,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it. I’ve made a lot of mistakes since I got here. I’m sorry about last night.”

 

“No you aren’t,” Brad smirks, “you’re just saying that because you know I can kick you out.”

 

“You don’t know that for definite,” Chester snaps. And he’s right. Brad has no idea if that is the case, but he just wondered if he could call the Angel’s bluff. Chester simply stands, staring at him. “Maybe I really am sorry. Maybe I love you and hadn’t wanted things to be that way.”

 

He said he loves you, Brad, fucking say something to him.

 

Brad stands there silently and watches Chester close his eyes, leaning heavily on the railing. He wants to say something clever like, maybe I love you too. Because Chester already knows for definite how Brad feels so it would just be a case of having the last word.

 

Instead he says, “What happened to your wings?”

 

Chester casts him a sidelong glance, “What do you mean?” He asks.

 

“Last night…” Brad says, frowning, “last night they were turning black.”

 

He blinks and there’s Chester’s wings, stretched out and beautiful in the morning light. Completely white too. From tip to tip they are covered in pristine white feathers. He gives Brad a strange look then smirks, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

 

But Brad knows he can’t have been dreaming about the black feathers, the ones that choked him whilst he slept.

 

But here are the Angel’s wings in front of him, entirely white.

 

So maybe he really is losing it.

 

“I’m sorry about last night too,” he says after a long moment of contemplation.

 

Chester doesn’t say anything. Time ticks by slowly and the fires burn the hills to dust in the distance. And just before Brad forgets what they were talking about Chester murmurs, “Maybe next time will be different.”

 

Brad smiles softly, “Yeah,” he says, “maybe it will be.”

 

“Let’s go out for breakfast. Or lunch. What time is it?”

 

“Breakfast,” Brad nods, “It’s only about seven thirty.”

 

Chester smiles, “Let’s go then.” He says, taking Brad’s hand and leading him inside. All of sudden last night is forgotten. Brad had wanted to ask what Scott had said but it seemed as if the moment had passed.

 

He follows Chester inside and sits on the couch, waiting as the Angel disappears upstairs to make himself look pretty. Thirty minutes pass and Brad looks at his watch, amused. He’s never met anybody as vain as Chester.

 

Eventually he appears, smiling and twirling in baggy jeans and a fitted t-shirt with ‘I’m with stupid’ printed on it and an arrow pointing down toward his crotch.

 

“Could you have taken any fucking longer?” Brad rolls his eyes, pushing himself to his feet.

 

“I need to look my best, okay? Just because you dress in clothes you found in Goodwill stores.” Chester sneers, hands planted on his hips. “Can we go now?”

 

Brad drives them into town, following Chester’s directions as carefully as he can.

 

“Go left here,” the Angel says, not looking up from the CD booklet he is reading.

 

Then later, after swerving around the corner and nearly hitting a wall, Brad lets out the breath he was holding.

 

“Take a right.”

 

So he does.

 

He has no idea where they’re going or why they have to trek this far out of the way just for breakfast. The House of Pancakes would have done him fine but apparently Chester has something a lot more specific in mind.

 

“Stop here.”

 

Brad pulls up in a parking bay across the road from a needle exchange and a methadone clinic.

 

“Why here?” He asks. This is one of the less savoury parts of the town and he isn’t sure he should get out of the car in case somebody steals his wheels.

 

Chester gets out, pulling his aviator shades over his eyes and pointing across the street. Sandwiched between the needle exchange and the methadone clinic is a tiny tattoo studio with ivy carved into the rotting wood of the window frames and various warnings about having identification of your age in the window.

 

“We can’t eat here,” Brad says, deadpan.

 

“Well if it isn’t Captain Obvious and his trusty sidekick Readily Apparent Boy!” Chester snorts and crosses the street without looking, heading straight to the shady looking tattoo studio.

 

Brad follows, casting a longing glance back at his car before stepping inside. Chester is already at the counter, flirting shamelessly with the girl there. “So how much?” He asks.

 

“What can you do for me?” She smiles. She’s a pretty girl with hair teased up into a big blonde cloud around her head. She purses her lips, shiny with too much lip gloss just like her face which is shiny with too much moisturiser, and pushes her tits together, winking.

 

This is disgusting.

 

“Uh…Chester…”

 

“Calm down, Bradface, it’s nothing serious.” He smiles innocently, lowering his shades to meet Brad’s eyes then the girl’s.

 

She leads him through to a back room where a large, bald headed man is getting an eagle tattooed across his back. It’s butt ugly, but Brad gets the feeling that nobody would ever tell the man that seeing as he could probably crush a car with his bare hands.

 

Chester hops up onto the chair opposite and rests one forearm on the arm, digging through his pocket with the other hand. “I was thinking something like this,” he says, thrusting a crumpled piece of paper at her chest.

 

She unfolds it and inspects it carefully, nodding, impressed. “You do this yourself?” She asks, waving it at him.

 

“Yeah,” Chester grins, “think you can do it?”

 

“I can do  _anything_  baby.”

 

She uses a cheap plastic razor to shave the dusting of light hair from Chester’s arms before drawing, freehand, the design from the paper onto his skin.

 

“I didn’t know you were…you know…planning to get a tattoo,” Brad says, trying not to be hurt by all of this. He pulls up a stool and sits and Chester’s feet, watching.

 

“It was going to be a surprise.”

 

After that neither of them speak.

 

It’s hard to make out what the tattoos are going to be from the outline drawn on in purple and the girl’s ass continuously blocking his view. The buzz of the needle sends a shiver down his spine and he watches intently as the girl traces the outline in one colour, changing to another, then back again.

 

“Dude,” she whistles through her teeth, “you’re not even fucking bleeding. What planet do you  _come_  from?”

 

Chester laughs, his head falling back in mirth, “If only you knew,” he says mysteriously and Brad wants to fucking vomit.

 

He sits there patiently, watching. Eventually he gets it. The tattoos are flames, like somebody set his forearms on fire. They’re not the colour of fire, though, there’s blue in there too.

 

“Why flames?” Brad asks eventually when the buzzing dies down and the girl gets more ink.

 

“Why not?” Chester shrugs.

 

Brad just stares at him placidly. He’s hungry and pretty pissed off by this point. He’s not a huge tattoo fan. Should have known it was only a matter of time before Chester got one, though, since he was into this whole rock star thing deeper than anybody he’s ever met.

 

“Okay, okay,” he sighs. “It’s because…I was meant to go to Hell, right? But I fell in the sea instead. I was meant to be engulfed by flames but the water saved me, you know? Fire and water.” He says, nodding to the blue and orange of the completed tattoo on his right arm.

 

The girl, she probably thinks Chester is fresh from either of the store’s neighbours and is high out of his mind. “How aren’t you even swelling?” She asks in amazement, “Does this hurt you at all?”

 

Chester shrugs, says, “Not really,” then drops his head back and closes his eyes, humming along to the song that plays on the beat up radio in the corner.

 

Brad tries to join in but soon realises that he’s not humming in tune with the song but with the needle. Just one steady, low buzzing sound over and over.

 

Other customers come and go; none of them look anything less than drug addicts. But Chester sits in the chair with Brad sitting at his feet watching intently. He’s bored out of his mind but doesn’t say anything. What’s the point? Chester wouldn’t be listening anyway.

 

But then the buzzing stops and Chester sits up, his arms stretched out in front of him as he inspects his new tattoos. They  _are_  brilliant, Brad has to admit. But still, he feels completely out of the loop as the girl tells Chester he owes her just short of one hundred dollars.

 

Chester just smiles indulgently and leans in, whispering something in her ear. She looks thoughtful for a second but nods enthusiastically eventually, her big bubble of hair barely moving.

 

“Brad?”

 

“Huh?” He slurs, snapped out of his day dream where he and Chester did everything right and were still in bed right now instead of here, the asshole of LA.

 

“Could you maybe wait for me in the car?” Chester asks, his eyes dark.

 

They’re going to fuck.

 

“Sure.” He says blankly, getting up and leaving.

 

He unlocks the car with shaking hands, debating just climbing behind the wheel and leaving Chester there. Stranded.

 

As he gets in and guns the engine to start the CD player up Chester is bending the girl over the counter, pushing up her tiny plaid skirt and fucking her.

 

He rests his head on the steering wheel and tries to get rid of the mental image of Chester gripping her tits as he thrusts into her rhythmically.

 

He tries to think of anything but that.

 

He thinks of Chester’s newly tattooed arms lurching for him, his hands wrapping around his throat. Strangulation is a horrible way to die. Too many crime scene TV shows have taught him that it’s hard to strangle someone by hand, that rope or a belt or anything is better than your bare hands.

 

Maybe just a tattoo gun.

 

Maybe that could kill somebody.

 

Or love.

 

Or, maybe, blinding jealousy.

 

Could this feeling kill somebody?

 

Is Chester going to be the death of him?

 

The car door opens and Chester slides into the passenger seat, shades pulled down over his eyes and bandages covering his new tattoos. “Let’s go for breakfast,” he says.

 

Brad tries to say something, anything, but he can’t. He can’t even stop himself from putting the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. He can’t stop himself asking, “What was her name?”

 

“Kahlen.” Chester says, rolling down the window to hang his arm out of.

 

“And you fucked her.”

 

“No.”

 

What Brad doesn’t know is that the store owner, later that night, he’ll come back to check up on his favourite employee Kahlen Rondot. She used to be a junkie but she reassured him, I’ll be as good as you need me to be. And she was, she was a talented artist who wasted her talent, wasted her life.

 

He’ll come back and Kahlen the ex-junkie, she’ll be slumped in the employee bathroom in the corner. Her wrists are slashed wide open and there’s blood and gore sprayed black all over the dirty tiled walls.

 

And the police will confirm it as definite suicide, no reason to think otherwise even when the guy begs and pleads them to find her killer.

 

What Brad doesn’t know is that anybody will kill themselves.

 

With a little persuasion.

 

With a Devil on their shoulder, whispering words of encouragement into their ear.


	9. Nine

Brad tries to keep it together in the car, keep his eyes off of Chester’s bandaged arms, keep his mind of the girl. But Chester is far too cool about it all. He sits in the passenger seat, staring out of the window at everything that passes them by as if nothing has happened. As if he doesn’t need to explain himself.

 

Chester glances at him, notices his tense jaw and angry glare, sighs heavily. “Brad I didn’t do anything with her.”

 

“Then what took you so fucking long?”

 

“We were just talking!” He snaps, “I was flirting with her to lower the price. That’s all. I’m not the massive  _slut_ you think I am.”

 

He looks genuinely offended at the idea, but Brad can’t stop sulking for whatever reason.

 

“Do you want to smell my fucking fingers, or what? Why can’t you just trust me?”

 

He doesn’t know. So he doesn’t answer. It’s not like he  _wants_  Chester to have had sex with her, he just can’t believe that after the way the two of them were going on in the store that he didn’t.

 

Chester sits back with his hands clasped irritably in his lap the entire way home.

 

And they never go for breakfast.

 

***

 

When they get home Chester stomps upstairs to hide. Brad goes to follow him but decides against it, eventually. He just wants this argument over and done with now, but he’s still too stubborn to go and apologise. Maybe it’s because he is still convinced that Chester did something he shouldn’t have.

 

Maybe he’s angry about the way he was treated last night. And now he is left welcoming passive aggression back into his life.

 

He is just about to go dig the cigarette butt which Chester dumped earlier from the grass in the garden when the phone rings. Brad takes a deep breath and answers it.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Oh. Hi Mike.”

 

Mike snorts, “Jesus, I’m sorry,” he says, “Were you expecting somebody more fun?”

 

“Yeah. Your mom.”

 

“Oh! You must be Funny’s cousin – Not Funny.”

 

“What do you want, Mike?”

 

“Jeff called and asked me to get in touch with everybody. I think he wants to have a pep talk about the album release or something. So he wants us all down at the studio for about five.”

 

“You’re already there, aren’t you?”

 

Something Brad has learned about Mike since they got signed is just how hard he is willing to work to make it to where they want to make it. They’re all really proud of how they’ve done on the album, but Mike is always there to push them further. Brad has played until his fingers are bleeding, some days, but then listening to the playback makes it worth it.

 

And as much admiration as he has for his friend, it still makes Brad a little nauseous.

 

Mike doesn’t honour his question with an answer, just says, “I’ll see you both at five,” then rings off.

 

***

 

Jeff’s pep talk is boring and preachy. It’s hard to concentrate on anything he says. Chester sits on the worn out couch at the back of the room, schooling his face into an expression which looks like he’s listening every time Jeff glances in his direction.

 

“Now one album isn’t a ticket to fame. It’s a drop in the bucket, but it doesn’t mean you can just clown around once it is released. With that said; I’d like to lay down some ground rules for the tour.”

 

Everybody groans, Rob dropping his head to rest on the mixing desk. Jeff frowns.

 

“Sorry,” Rob mutters, not raising his head, “it’s just that I don’t drink, let alone do drugs. And I have a girlfriend so I’m not going to bring girls back to the RV. Do I have to sit through this talk?”

 

“Well first off; we won’t be touring in an RV.”

 

Rob lifts his head and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Velvet Revolver’s management have been kind enough to supply you guys with a bus. So you might want to kiss some  _serious_  ass. Anyway. I’m not going to baby sit you all whilst we tour but I hope you respect each other not to bring fans back to the bus and I swear to fucking God if we ever get busted for possession when we’re crossing a border I will disown you all.”

 

Fair enough. The drugs aren’t really worth the trouble. Not yet, anyway. When they make it big if drugs are what they want then maybe it’s worth the gamble.

 

Jeff is still going, “As you all know the album is finished, there’s nothing more we can add to it. So this weekend Brad and Mike will be flying to New York to mix it.”

 

Chester looks up from where he is explaining his tattoos to Mike and stares at Brad, “You’re going to New York?”

 

He’s completely forgotten. Certain things easily slip your mind, especially if you don’t want to do them, when there are bigger things going on. And the bigger thing in this case was Chester. He nods guiltily, “Just for a couple of days.”

 

“You’re going to New York,” Chester says again, as if he doesn’t understand at all.

 

The room falls into a tense silence. Brad knows everybody is just waiting for a domestic to kick off so he just flashes Chester a tiny smile, says, “We can talk about this later, yeah?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Jeff continues on, ranting about how important it is that they are on their best behaviour once the album is dropped, that they can’t go wild – they have a reputation to build. They have press to impress. And once he finally shuts up Chester gets to his feet, standing over Brad until he gets up too and they head outside.

 

“Before you say anything,” Chester says firmly, “I did not touch that girl. I’m sorry about the way I acted this morning but after last night I was feeling…reckless to say the least. But the fact that I acted like a bitch doesn’t excuse not telling me you were leaving.”

 

“It’s only two days, Ches’.”

 

“You  _know_  how I feel about being in this place on my own. Can’t I at least come with?”

 

It’s all booked. Everything is arranged. He feels horrible, suddenly, guilt pooling in his stomach and coursing through his veins like a virus. How could he have forgotten about Chester? Why hadn’t he thought this through?

 

Chester sighs, stares at his shoes, “Okay I get it. Thanks, man.”

 

Brad opens his mouth to apologise but Chester is gone, he’s back in the studio and if he continues this little chat in there he knows he’ll get in trouble. So it’s over. And just as he thought he had repaired things between him and Chester, he realises that there is always ample opportunity to fuck everything up.

 

***

 

Mike drives Chester home whilst Brad stays behind going over a few riffs with Dave. The pair sit in the car outside of Brad’s house, not talking. He shouldn’t be angry at Mike – Mike has no obligation to stay home with him. But then again, maybe Brad doesn’t either.

 

“I can make him stay, if you want. I’m sure I can handle it on my own.”

 

Chester feels infinitely pathetic. He doesn’t need Brad to hold his hand everywhere he goes. He never thought he’d become  _this_  dependant on a human, ever. He smiles wearily and shakes his head.

 

“No,” he says, “I’ll be fine. I’m just a bit homesick, you know? So I’ll take it out on anybody for any reason.”

 

“If it helps, I really love your tattoos. They’re fucking cool.”

 

Chester laughs, “Thanks. Thanks for the ride, too.”

 

He slides out of the passenger seat and closes the door, heading up the path to the house. Inside it is big and dark and empty. Lonely. He takes a deep breath and locks the door. Beer and a movie, he decides, is better than nothing.

 

So he puts on Fight Club and sits in front of the TV with a bottle of Budweiser – essentially piss in a bottle in Chester’s opinion. He soon gets bored. Loves the movie, though. Brad introduced him to it last week and ever since then he has been quoting it at every given opportunity.

 

On a morning when Brad asks if he wants breakfast Chester says, “I am Jack’s blinding hunger.”

 

Or, “Are you ready to leave for the studio, Chester?”

 

“I am Jack’s early preparation.”

 

It pisses Brad off to no end, which makes it all highly amusing for Chester. But now he just can’t focus. He gets up, taking his beer out to the backyard. Under the angry glow of the flood light he drinks his piss-poor excuse of a beer and pulls out the newly grown weeds.

 

That’s where Brad finds him later that night when he gets home. He kneels down beside him in the dirt, takes the trowel from him.

 

“Give it back,” Chester protests weakly.

 

“I’m under the impression that you could probably kill me with your bare hands,” Brad says, “so I’m not going to give you anything you can use as a weapon.”

 

Chester smiles and hands Brad an unopened beer from where it lies on the grass between them, watches his friend use the trowel to pop the cap. He takes a drink and grimaces, “I should have told you about New York.”

 

“No. It doesn’t matter. I’m just having a bad day.”

 

“I think we both are,” Brad says. He gets up, beer in one hand and the trowel in the other, “Let’s go inside. We can watch a movie.”

 

“I put Fight Club on.” Chester confesses as he gets to his feet and brushes dirt from his jeans, “but I couldn’t deal with watching a film about the deterioration of human kind.”

 

“Why don’t we watch something more in your interest?”

 

They head inside, kicking off their shoes at the door before trudging into the living room. Chester collapses onto the couch and studies Brad’s every move as he grabs a DVD from the cabinet under the TV and puts it in the player.

 

“What we watching?” He asks, waiting until Brad takes a seat to curl up against him, cuddling close.

 

“Constantine,” Brad chuckles, kissing Chester’s hair.

 

“What’s it about?”

 

“Well…Keanu Reeves is a bad ass all the way through and we learn to love him because he had a tough past or something. And there are Angels, Demons.”

 

After that Chester asks no more questions, just watches contently for almost the entire movie. When Angel Gabriel comes on screen he snorts.

 

“What?”

 

“Gabriel only  _wishes_  he looks like that,” he says smirking at the actress on screen.

 

He says nothing until Satan makes an appearance on the screen. He stands over the stricken protagonist in a completely white suit. His feet are coated in tar. Chester and Brad sit side by side in awkward silence until the scene is over.

 

They both want to say something, anything. And eventually Brad says, “I fucking hope Scott’s feet aren’t like that. If they are and he steps foot on our bus I’ll kill him.”

 

Chester smiles, presses his face to Brad’s chest and laughs. It feels good to laugh. The two of them stay there, curled up on the couch even after the movie ends. And Chester falls asleep there, in Brad’s arms.

 

***

 

Rob invites Brad and Chester over for dinner one night before Brad has to leave for New York. This makes Chester nervous seeing as Rob has a lovely girlfriend so this probably classes a double date, right? He’s close to having a panic attack as he gets ready, terrified of embarrassing Rob in front of his girlfriend.

 

Brad sits on the bed, pulling on his shoes and laughing, “Would you calm down?” He says with a gentle smile, “Rob is your friend and you don’t have to impress his girlfriend. He name is Vanessa and she’s lovely. You’ll be fine.”

 

Chester nods and buttons up his shirt clumsily. He dresses in nervous silence, pulling on his shoes and disappearing downstairs. He waits on the porch for Brad, breathing in the evening air. A hand snakes around his waist from behind and he smiles to himself, leaning back against Brad’s chest.

 

“You ready, scaredy cat?”

 

“I’m not  _scared_ , Brad. I just have a headache.”

 

Brad smirks, “Oh no,” he gasps, “Maybe you’ve caught the fraidy cat virus!”

 

Chester laughs and slaps his arm, “Shut up and get in the car.”

 

The drive over is fine, and Chester relaxes some, but then they pull up outside the house and see Vanessa waiting on the porch. And Chester thinks, shit, I know her. He doesn’t say anything to Brad, climbs out of the car and smiles at her.

 

“Hi.” He says as he walks up the path.

 

She just smiles.

 

Brad stops beside them but Chester just waves him on, “Go say hi to Rob for me,” he says, not explaining himself at all. Brad nods uncertainly and heads inside, closing the front door after him.

 

Vanessa’s wings glow in the diminishing sunlight and she smiles tiredly, “What are you doing here?”

 

“You heard about the merger deal right?” Chester asks. Vanessa shakes her head and Chester shrugs, “Well, Hell bought out Heaven before the whole thing went under and anybody who refused to work for Hell was kicked out, basically.”

 

She takes his hand, leading him to the wooden bench at one side of the porch, “They just kicked you out?”

 

“Yeah pretty much. But it’s okay. Brad has given me a place to stay.”

 

“Rob said you guys are dating,” She smiles knowingly, “That’s unlike you since you were pretty much completely anti-human last time I spoke to you.”

 

“Yeah but that was like, a century ago.” Chester smiles, “And Brad has completely changed my mind about them. So what’s going on with you and Rob? I thought you were a Guardian Angel. Don’t you people have all of no love life?”

 

Vanessa laughs, her voice as light as air. She nudges him with her elbow, “I  _am_  a Guardian Angel and we  _do_  have love lives. I’m Rob’s Guardian Angel, actually.”

 

“You are?” Chester knew all about the problems Rob had had in the past with alcohol and drugs. He’d opened up about it and when he spoke he sounded almost ashamed. Chester had tried to reassure him, promised that it was okay, everybody hits a pot hole through out their life but they just have to carry on.

 

Then he realised how gay it all sounded and realised why he was never hired as a Guardian Angel.

 

“I didn’t think he had any reason to be, you know, guarded.”

 

Vanessa nods, “He’s okay now. He’s okay most of the time, really. But I don’t think he would be if he was alone.”

 

“So you were assigned to him, then what?”

 

“Then I fell in love with him,” She says, smiling dreamily. “Like you with Brad, right? It just was meant to be from the very beginning.”

 

“Can I just make a confession for a second?” Chester asks, playing with his hands, “I was so nervous about meeting you today I almost threw up.”

 

Vanessa laughs again, “You’re such a dork.”

 

“Well it’s not like I knew it was you! You could have called me!”

 

“Rob would have wanted to know how I knew you, so would Brad, and I’m a horrible liar. Little white lies I can deal with, like pretending to be human. But anything more than that I try to steer away from.”

 

The front door opens and Rob pokes his head out, “Are you guys quite done bonding? Nessi you know I’m useless in the kitchen. If you want this to be edible I’d move yourself as fast as you can.”

 

And then he’s gone, leaving the front door open behind him. Chester smiles, “Nessi? It’s so cute that he has a pet name for you.”

 

She rolls her eyes and gets to her feet, her wings long disappeared. “Shut up. I know you call your lover boy Bradface.”

 

She saunters inside and Chester hurries after her.

 

***

 

That night as they climb into bed Brad says, “You got on really well with Vanessa. Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

 

Brad gawps, “Really? She’s an Angel?”

 

Chester nods tiredly, “Yeah. But she loves him, you know.”

 

“So I guess that makes you  _my_  Guardian Angel, then?”

 

Chester doesn’t say ‘no, it makes  _you mine_ ’. He kisses the bare skin of Brad’s chest and dozes off without another word.

  
  


***

 

Chester helps him pack for New York. It occurs to him that this is the kind of thing housewives do, but Brad seems happy that at least they’re doing this together rather than him having to do it by himself whilst Chester sits in the garden moodily.

 

“You know I’m only going for two or three days, right?” Brad asks, amused, as Chester piles more clothes into the suitcase.

 

“Yeah I know, but you would pack one shirt and one pair of jeans if I let you do this by yourself so just pack your toiletries and shut the fuck up.”

 

“I’ve packed them…”

 

“All of them?!”

 

“Shampoo,” Brad begins to list the things, “toothpaste, toothbrush, shower gel, razor.”

 

“What about moisturiser?”

 

Brad laughs, “I don’t moisturise.”

 

“Jesus Christ! Well you fucking should. Okay let’s try this – you zip up the case once I pack your toiletries.”

 

In the bathroom Chester adds moisturiser, face cream to wear at night that makes his skin  _so_  soft he could just die, hair serum for when Brad dries his hair. Straightening serum just in case he gets sick of having curly hair. All the essentials.

 

“Okay!” He grins, bouncing back into the bedroom, “I have everything you could need in here,” he drops the bag into Brad’s case.

 

Brad just stares at him.

 

“What?”

 

“Come with me.”

 

Chester laughs, “What?”

 

“Come with me. To New York. I’ll worry myself sick with you staying here. Look at what happened last time I left you alone.”

 

Oh yeah. That. The thing nobody ever lets him forget. ‘You were raped, you know?’ as if he doesn’t remember.

 

“I’m going to be fine,” Chester smiles, taking both of Brad’s hands in his. “Rob, Dave and Joe have promised to come visit me whenever I want. We’ll have girly nights in,” He winks.

 

Brad smiles shyly and only stops when Chester kisses him softly, reassuringly.

 

“Besides,” he says, kissing Brad’s cheek, “it’s all booked and shit. There’s no room for me. Just go. And do your thing. I would just get in the way anyway.”

 

What he doesn’t tell him is about how Scott has been calling. About how they have arranged to meet up. Probably it’ll end up just being drinks but he still can’t tell Brad that.

 

Can’t. Never will.

 

***

 

A day passes with phone calls from Brad every time they take a break telling him about what he’s having for lunch, how well things are going, how much he misses him.

 

The second day Scott comes around, standing on the front porch wearing a leonine smile and smoking something that smells stronger than tobacco.

 

“You can’t smoke that shit in here,” Chester warns him, “Brad will go off it.”

 

Scott stares, unimpressed. He nips the end of the joint between his thumb and forefinger, pulling a battered tobacco tin from his pocket and putting it in there. He then puts his thumb in a thumbs down position, pretending to squash something beneath it.

 

“I’m not under the thumb,” Chester says. He’d speak up, complain, but he’s still a bit scared of the Angel in front of him. So he doesn’t press it further, just lets him in and closes the door after him.

 

“So,” Scott says, surveying the house as he moves from room to room slowly, “you’re home alone, huh? Not going to torch the place and claim the insurance money?”

 

Chester frowns, “No…”

 

“Shame. So did you fuck him?”

 

He doesn’t want to talk about it so he walks into the kitchen, ignoring Scott completely as if he didn’t hear him.

 

“So you did, then?”

 

“Do you want a drink?”

 

“Was he any good?”

 

“We have beer.”

 

“Hey!” Scott yells, his voice as loud as a plane crash, a head collision. Twisted metal and screams of pain, “I’m _talking_  to you.”

 

Chester cowers visibly, “Yes I fucked him.”

 

“Jesus, you need to grow a back bone.” Scott laughs lightly, now smiling and almost playful compared to how angry he was two seconds ago.

 

But Chester knows he’s right. He really does need to grow a spine, he needs to learn to stand up for himself. He didn’t realise what a complete fucking  _whuss_  he had become until now. Until Scott stands in front of him, he thinks he’s doing okay, when really he’s just becoming another human being.

 

He roots through the fridge, pulling out two beers, handing one to Scott who grabs a hold of Chester’s wrist and squeezes it, smirking when he flinches.

 

“Are these new?” He asks, nodding at the flames licking their way up his forearms.

 

“They are. Do you like them?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Chester doesn’t know what that means. He cracks open his beer using Brad’s Guns ‘n’ Roses bottle opener, handing it to Scott who curls his nose up.

 

“My guitarist, Slash, he used to be in this band.”

 

“So I heard.”

 

“He’s so much better off with us. Axel Rose is an asshole.”

 

Probably, Axel Rose thinks the same of Scott. Chester had been on the internet and it turns out that Scott  _is_  the big diva everybody had said he was. Trashing hotel rooms and burning his wife’s clothes are just two of a long list of outrageous rock-star-esque things he has done.

 

The beer doesn’t last long and the pair don’t leave the kitchen. Chester leans against the counter awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Scott.

 

“You ever been in a fight, Chester?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“No. I mean a real fist fight. Blood and teeth and all that.”

 

Chester shakes his head. Thinks of Fight Club and Tyler Durden saying  _I want you to hit me as hard as you can._

 

The closest he got to a fight was his attack. His little  _incident_. And even then it was pretty one sided, with him just falling to his knees and sobbing like a little baby. He shakes his head.

 

Scott launches his beer bottle through the air. Chester anticipates the crash, the breaking of glass but it never comes as the bottle lands safely in the trash can with a dull thud.

 

“We’re going out,” He says, wiping his hands on his jeans.

 

“Where to?”

 

Scott shrugs, “No idea. But let’s go.”

 

They cab it to Van Nuys. Far enough away for nobody to think anything of them. In the heart of Los Angeles it’s hard for Scott to go far without being recognised. So Van Nuys it is. They step into the first bar they come across, Chester following Scott into the darkness and the smoke.

 

They both pull up stools at the bar, surveying the place as they wait for the bartender to spot them. Chester frowns at a girl down the bar shamelessly checking him out, licking her lips and licking between the V of her fingers.

 

“Why are we here?” He shudders, turning back to Scott who is staring across the bar at a pale faced boy with a mop of messy black hair, eyes circled with too much eyeliner.

 

“We’re just looking for a fight,” Scott says, getting up and prowling over to the boy.

 

Chester watches from where he sits as Scott approaches the kid, leaning in and whispering in his ear. The boy tips his head to the side, closes his eyes in ecstasy. Then he nods, minutely, looks up into Scott’s eyes and lets Scott lead him back over to Chester.

 

“This is Adam,” Scott says with a sly smile as if this is all part of a joke he and Chester have come up with, “Adam…he’ll fight you.”

 

“W-what?” Chester stammers, eyes wide. The boy is barely out of his teens. He might not even be twenty yet. He shouldn’t be in this bar. This boy, he’s somebody’s precious little son.

 

“If I do something for him, he’ll do something for me. Well…you. Everybody has to fight back, Chester.”

 

The way Scott says  _something_  leads Chester to believe that this is all about sexual favours. A blow job for a punch. A hand job for a kick in the mouth. Chester chews the inside of his lip. “I don’t know…” he says, warily.

 

“No it’s cool,” Adam says with an easy smile, both hands jammed into his pockets, “I  _want_  you to punch me.”

 

This is all kinds of messed up. But before Chester can object anymore there’s that voice in his head, clear as day. He knows it’s Scott’s doing but he can’t shut it out.

 

 _You heard the little slut_ , the voice in his head says,  _he wants you to hit him, wants you to hurt him. So do it already._

 

Chester gets to his feet without a word and leaves the bar, shoving through clusters of people standing around with drinks in one hand and cigarettes in the other. He heads down the street and then turns left sharply, knowing where he’s going even though he’s never been to Van Nuys before.

 

Scott and Adam follow, their hands laced. They could be a happy couple. This could be normal. The street Chester has walked down is empty of people or animals, all the stores that line it long closed for the day and the workers’ gone home to their microwavable dinners.

 

Scott lets loose Adam’s hand and pushes him toward Chester whose wings are spread out behind him, a patch work of black and white like a finish line flag. Those wings say; it’s over, this is where it ends. The boy stumbles, almost falls, but finds his footing. He lurches toward Chester, a lot drunker than he had seemed in the bar.

 

“All you have to do, Adam, is let him hit you. Then you’ll get your reward,” Scott says, leering when the boy turns around and smiles. “All  _you_  have to do, Chester, is grow a back bone. Face your fucking problems.”

 

“How is hitting a kid facing my problems?”

 

“Adam’s daddy is a horrible drunk,” Scott says, walking in a wide arc around the boy and toward Chester, “and has been known to beat on his wife. As well as other people. Never lays a finger on his darling son, though. This is something he created, something that in his eyes is perfect, and he would never try to destroy that.”

 

“What the fuck are you getting at, Lucifer?” Chester growls impatiently.

 

“Not long ago Adam’s daddy had a bad day. Went drinking with his asshole friends. These kind of people, they’re destined to go straight to Hell. They’re the scum of the Earth and make the human race look even worse than it already does,” Scott says.

 

He stands behind Chester, almost whispering now, “Adam’s daddy stumbled drunk into an alley to maybe take a piss. And he found a guy there, hardly able to stand. And he thought, might as well take advantage of this situation.

 

“And as he raped the guy and beat him senseless all he could do was stammer helplessly. At the sight of beautiful wings sprouting from his victim’s back.”

 

Scott steps back.

 

Chester can’t breathe for the anger he is feeling. It’s taking over, turning him into a monster. Wrath is a deadly sin, but he couldn’t fucking give a shit. He tries to control himself but gives in to his anger, lunging forward and knocking Adam off his feet.

 

He punches the boy hard, his jaw cracking under the force and his lip bursting, blood spraying hot all over Chester’s fist. Hits him again and again, nose, cheekbone, he doesn’t fucking care.

 

Adam tries to roll away but he’s in pain, his broken nose bleeding down his throat and drowning him. He couldn’t move if he wanted to, because Chester has a handful of his black hair and pulls his head up, slamming it back down to the asphalt hard.

 

The sickening crunch of a skull cracking repeatedly meets his ears as he slams Adam’s head down again and again. He’s dead. But Chester can’t stop. He can’t breathe, can’t hear for the voice in his head screaming,  _he fucking deserves it, he fucking well deserves it!_

 

He gets to his feet, panting, and looks down on the body at his feet. Kicks him in the ribs violently for good measure. Then spits into his bloody face. Scott sidles up to him, takes his hand to his mouth and kisses away the blood, the gore, his and Adam’s mingled together to form a black mess on his knuckles.

 

Chester breathes raggedly, “I f-fucking killed him.”

 

“I know this isn’t the first time,” Scott says placidly, licking the blood from his own lips, “I know about Kahlen.”

 

Chester freezes, “How do you know?”

 

“I know everything.” Scott grabs Adam’s body by the ankle and drags him down the street, leaving Chester behind. He glances back before he reaches the bottom of the road and whistles, “You coming or not?”

 

Chester doesn’t say anything, blinks sweat and blood from his eyes, and then jogs after Scott. Following the trail of blood left behind.


	10. Ten

He’s woozy, feels drunk even though he only had that one beer back at home with Scott. Scott, who is now walking ahead of him, Adam’s lifeless body cradled in his arms like a sleeping child.

 

Chester skip-step-skipped to keep up and walking in step with him. The silence of the night was heavy like the hand of God pressing down all around them. But he doesn’t exist, Chester tells himself, there’s nobody here to judge him.

 

“What about the blood?” He asks after a moment, casting a glance over his shoulder at the trail left behind them which stops abruptly where Scott picked up the body.

 

“What about it?”

 

“Someone will see it, they’ll do tests. DNA, you know? Connect the dots. We’ll be put away.”

 

“That blood will be gone before any piggies come sniffing around here with their forensic scientists. But we’ll still be here if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

 

Chester didn’t even realise he had fallen behind again, and hurries to keep up. Scott stops walking, suddenly, hefting the heavy load in his arms further up his chest. Blood stains his shirt, shining in the dark like a gory tie-dye. There’s blood on his hands, his neck where Adam’s head rests. He smiles at Chester, a gleam in his eye.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s your turn to carry him. You’re the one who caved his head in.”

 

“I’m not fucking touching him.” Chester snaps, “Why can’t we just dump him somewhere?”

 

“Okay sure,” Scott says, dropping the body to the ground and stepping back from it. “Want me to leave your phone number in his pocket for when the cops find him? Then they’ll know for sure who killed him.”

 

He walks away, continuing down the same street they’d been following for most of the night. Chester sighs heavily and crouches down, taking the body in his arms and carrying it along with him. He moves slowly, lumbering along. Scott slows down eventually and lets him catch up.

 

“Where are we taking him?”

 

Scott says nothing, just digs his dirty hands into his pockets and breathes in deeply, “Don’t you love the night air?” He asks.

 

Chester would shrug but he can’t even raise his shoulders for the weight in his arms. All he knows is that he’s tired, now.

 

They continue walking in silence, not passing another human being as they make their way down the street. They pass houses, most of which are dark with all their occupants sleeping inside. Some have bedroom windows lit, people inside watching TV in their living rooms. Oblivious.

 

Scott finally stops walking, standing still next to a chain link fence with a sign hanging from it with  _Dangerous Structure, Absolutely No Trespassing Whatsoever_ printed on it in angry red letters.

 

“What the hell are we here for?”

 

Scott says nothing, just runs his hand along the face until it snags, tugs hard until it breaks. His strength sends a shiver down Chester’s spine as he watches Scott tear a gap into the fence, sliding through with ease. Once on the other side he pulls it back more, leaving plenty room for Chester to get through.

 

Still, the torn metal snags the skin of his arm and he hisses, not even looking down at it as he follows Scott across the gravel and broken glass which litters the ground around the building. He disappears inside, not looking back to see if Chester is coming.

 

Inside is dusty, cold from no sun for months. Maybe years. Probably, people used to live here. Cheap housing for cheaper people. And Chester pictures the sign outside saying  _ABSOLUTELY NO HOPE WHATSOEVER._

 

Everything is falling apart around them. Exposed plaster, exposed everything. The building is an empty shell, a skeleton that they’re hiding in. He follows Scott up the stairs silently, Adam’s body heavy and cold in his arms. They keep going, up, up, up to the top until they reach the fire exit to the roof.

 

The door is hanging from its hinges and swings open with just a gentle push from Scott. He runs out onto the roof, grinning, whooping excitedly. “Just  _think_  about all the people who have jumped off of the top of here.” He yells, running to the edge.

 

Chester hangs back, watching as Scott kicks off his shoes, curling his bare toes over the very edge of the roof. His midnight black wings spread out wide behind him, blotting out the stars.

 

He steps closer, shaking slightly. Never was fond of heights, and he’s more than aware of the fact that neither of them can fly here. If they fall they fall, and they’ll hit the ground just like anybody else would. “What are we doing here?”

 

“Getting rid of the evidence,” He says. “Poor Adam got tired of his monster of a father beating up his mom, getting drunk every night. He walked to the outskirts of town, found the tallest building he could. And he jumped.”

 

“So…I’m throwing him off?” Chester asks, pulling a face.

 

“Oh so you’ll kill him but won’t throw his dead body off a building? That’s big of you.”

 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to do it, it’s that he doesn’t want to have to go anywhere near the edge. He takes a deep breath and steps closer again until he is standing directly behind Scott who steps to the side, making room. Another deep breath, another timid step and he is standing on the edge, holding Adam’s body out in front of him.

 

“Now,” Scott whispers, “just let go.”

 

Chester nods, releasing his hold on the body and watching as it tumbles towards the ground like a rag doll. The impact throws up a cloud of dust as he lands amongst the gravel and grit below them.

 

Scott claps him on the back, hard enough to make him stumble a little and almost fall. “Good boy,” he says proudly.

 

Chester smiles weakly. He wants to say something; wants to say thank you or make a joke about maybe getting a treat later. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the body below them, can’t find his voice.

 

***

 

They walk half way home, Scott saying that if they call a cab from anywhere in the close proximity to the building they’ll be fucked. When they pull up outside Brad’s house only Chester gets out.

 

He leans back into the cab, “Aren’t you coming?”

 

Scott shakes his head, “No.” He says, “He’ll call you tonight. I’d rather not be there for your sick little lovey-dovey conversation. I’ll be in touch.”

 

Chester just nods, closes the door and heads up the path to the house. He digs his key out of his pocket. Under the porch light the blood on his hands is bright red like the paint on the sign outside of the building. Shaking, he jabs his key into the lock, opening the door and hurrying inside.

 

He races into the kitchen, blasting the faucet and sticking his hands into the jet of hot water, washing the blood away. Crazed, like Lady Macbeth, he scrubs at his skin until his hands are raw. But at least there’s no dead boy’s blood on his hands anymore.

 

He’s drying off his hands when the phone rings. He reaches out, grabbing it, “Hello?”

 

And it’s Brad’s voice on the other end just like Scott had predicted. “Hey.”

 

It’s like somebody threw him a rope to climb out, up to safety. He takes a deep breath, slow exhale, “Hi,” he says.

 

Brad laughs, “You already said that.”

 

“You know how they say absence makes the heart grow fonder? Well…it does.”

 

Brad laughs again, lightly, “You’re such a dork.”

 

“Am not!” Chester giggles. “How’s it going?”

 

“It’s going good. It sounds really great. I can’t wait for you to hear it.”

 

Chester can’t wait either; mostly he can’t wait for Brad to come home. Even though Scott’s voice is in his head, whispering angrily. He tunes it out, focuses on Brad instead. He asks him an endless list of questions about his day, the album, Mike. Avoids answering the questions he is asked in turn.

 

“What’s wrong, Ches’?” Brad asks. He sounds worried.

 

Chester sighs quietly and slinks into the living room. His arms ache from carrying Adam’s dead body across Van Nuys, he’s getting mixed up in something he doesn’t really think he should. That’s what’s wrong. He drops onto the couch and stretches out. “I’m just tired. And I miss you. It’s weird without you here. The house is too big for me.”

 

“And Heaven wasn’t?”

 

“You’d be surprised how tiny Heaven really is.”

 

“I miss you too,” Brad says, “and I’ll be home soon.”

 

Chester doesn’t say; good, because I’m drifting away without you. He doesn’t say; I need you back here with me, I need your love to hold me down, like nails in my feet.

 

Instead he tells Brad that he loves him, not to worry, that everything is fine and that he’ll be much better after a good night’s sleep. Which is mostly the truth.

 

“Go take a bath,” Brad says, “you sound like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders. And you have pretty skinny shoulders, man.”

 

Chester laughs, nods, “Yeah I feel like it. A bath is a good idea.”

 

“Okay I’ll leave you to it. And I’ll call you in the morning. I love you.”

 

The words catch in his throat as they always do. “Night, Bradface.”

 

Brad sounds a little disheartened but says, “Night, Ches’” softly before he hangs up.

 

Chester puts the phone down and runs his fingers through his hair. Eventually he pushes himself up and heads upstairs to run himself a bath.

 

***

 

Brad brings him home a T-shirt with ‘I love NY’ written on it, along with a handful of bottles of scotch, vodka and whisky that he stole from the hotel along with several sachets of tea, coffee and sugar stolen from the studio they were mixing at. He hands them to Chester in a paper bag with a tired smile.

 

“Jet lag,” he says, as if Chester asked for an explanation.

 

He puts on the T-shirt immediately and grins, “Do I look good.”

 

Brad, he has collapsed onto the bed and is laying there with his eyes closed, “You look amazing,” he says, not even looking.

 

Chester would bitch, usually, but lets it slide this time. He lies on the bed beside Brad then shimmies closer, resting his head on his chest. He can hear his heart beating through his ribs.

 

“The album gets released on the first day of our tour.”

 

Chester doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to think about anything.

 

“Are you ready for it?”

 

“I think so,” Chester says honestly.

 

“Even though Scott will be there?”

 

He thinks of bodies, of rooftops and murder and wings as black as oblivion.

 

“Yes,” he says, “I’m ready.”

 

***

 

It’s the first day of the tour and they’re in Arizona. So far Scott has kept his distance from him, from them all, only talking to them to welcome them along. He didn’t meet Chester’s eyes but he met Brad’s, smirking at him as he spoke.

 

The bus could have been a shack on wheels and it still would have been a welcome comfort after the hell of the RV they used to drive. Not having to work out driving shifts helped too, and not having to worry about gas money, about paying for their food. It was a dream come true.

 

Their first show is at the Cricket Pavilion in Arizona. Chester has to pretend like he’s been here a million times before, but when the others aren’t looking he grins excitedly at everything around him.

 

Brad catches him skipping toward a gift shop near the venue and laughs, following him. Inside Chester picks up bits and pieces, post cards, pencil sharpeners, key rings, and throws them at the cashier with an excited smile.

 

Brad wraps his arms around his waist from behind and rests his chin on Chester’s shoulder. “I hope some of those are for me.”

 

Chester grins and hands over some money. He pats Brad’s hand and nods, “Would you like a paper weight? With a Phoenix on it?”

 

“You’re such a stupid tourist,” Brad laughs, stepping away and walking out of the store.

 

Chester hurries after him with his bag of trinkets in his hand. “I’m a tourist to the whole planet so shush. You have to pretend we went in there for you, though, if they ask. Mike thinks I used to live here.”

 

But nobody is even on the bus when they get back. On the table is a note in Rob’s scrawled handwriting saying “Gone to run around the venue. See ya there!”

 

Brad laughs and asks, “Wanna go join them?”

 

Chester almost says yes but then he shakes his head, dumps his bag of goodies on the table and steps closer to Brad. He wraps his arms around his waist and smiles, “I have a better idea.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Chester dips his head to kiss the smooth skin of Brad’s neck. “How about we christen our new bus?” He asks, “In the best possible way.”

 

Brad grins and kisses him slowly, walking him backwards through the bunk section of the bus to the backroom. He slides the lock across and pulls off Chester’s ‘I love NY’ shirt.

 

Chester unbuttons Brad’s shirt in return, pushing it away and dropping to his knees. He kisses Brad’s prominent hipbone as he slides his belt through the loop, unfastening his jeans and pulling them down to his ankles. He presses his lips to the bulge in front of him before pulling down his boxers, too.

 

Brad shivers and looks down, meeting Chester’s eyes. The Angel wraps his hand around Brad’s member, stroking him until he’s hard. Then he takes him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking lightly. He traces the vein along the underside and begins to slowly bob his head.

 

He drops his head back, closing his eyes with a quiet moan. He runs his hands through Chester’s hair gently. The Angel’s tongue feels amazing around his erection and he can’t help but buck his hips.

 

“Mmm,” Chester moans around him, sending tingles down his spine.

 

“Ch-Ches’…stop.”

 

But Chester isn’t listening. He sucks harder, encouraging Brad to come. Brad arches his back hard and thrusts into Chester’s mouth as he rides out his orgasm with a cry. He barely notices as the Angel pulls away and gets to his feet but he does notice the kiss and the taste of himself on Chester’s tongue.

 

He pulls away, trying to catch his breath, “My turn,” he pants, reaching between them to massage Chester through his pants, grinning widely.

 

***

 

The show goes well. Mike gives them a little pep talk before they go on stage telling him that people generally have limited patience for support groups and not to be disheartened if they get booed. But they don’t. Nobody knows the words but at least they  _try_  to join in. And nobody throws any bottles of piss, which is always a plus.

 

Chester feels like he’s on fire once he leaves the stage, adrenaline coursing through his veins in a way he’s never felt before. He bounces around backstage until the others catch up with him. He flings his arms around Rob who giggles and lifts him off the ground.

 

All he can hear is their own guitar riffs running through his head and the sounds of the bass drum as the roadies start the sound check for Velvet Revolver. Scott and Slash find them, congratulating them, thanking them.

 

Scott sidles up to Chester and claps him on the back, “You’re amazing.” He breathes, his breath like ice against Chester’s ear.

 

Then they’re gone and he shivers. Brad steps toward him lacing their fingers together. “We’re going to watch them play,” he says, “then we’re going to buy our album.”

 

Chester gawps, “It’s today,” he says, not really believing he could have forgotten their own release date. “Oh my god it’s today”

 

“Yeah,” Brad laughs, kissing his cheek, “Mike says we’re going to go drive around until we find a store that stays open past midnight and be the first to buy it.”

 

They all hang around backstage watching Velvet Revolver play. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it, Brad admires Scott’s voice and charisma on the stage. But, he supposes, being the lord of the underworld would boost anybody’s confidence.

 

Still, Chester gives in when Brad says he wants to leave. He doesn’t particularly want to be caught or trapped in conversation with Scott. So they head back to where their bus is parked before Velvet Revolver leave the stage. They leave through the fire escape at the back of the venue, stepping outside with a contented sigh.

 

They’re half way across the parking lot when somebody runs up behind them.

 

“Brad!” A voice calls, “Chester!”

 

They turn to face a group of four teenagers running toward them with T-shirts in their hands.

 

“Oh my god!” One of the girls squeals, “You guys were  _amazing_. I can’t wait to buy your CD tomorrow. Will you guys sign my shirt?”

 

All four of them thrust their shirts forward at the same time along with permanent markers. They grin hopefully.

 

Chester beams and takes a shirt and a pen from the first guy, “Turn around,” he says, pressing the shirt to his flat back and signing it. He holds the pen out for Brad to do the same. They stand there with them for a little while chatting. Chester smiles politely, yes we’re excited to be touring with such a great band, no we never thought that our first gig would go so well.

 

Eventually they part ways. Brad thinks Chester probably would have stood there all night quite happily. Meeting fans has blown Brad’s mind, though, and every time they asked him a question all his answers came out monosyllabic and boring.

 

They wait by the bus for the rest of the guys who eventually burst from the building, running toward them excitedly. “We called a cab!” Dave laughs. “So let’s go!”

 

They run to the main road just beyond the venue and wait, impatiently, for their cab. Mike calls shotgun before the cab is even in sight and jumps into the front seat when it pulls up. The others pile into the back and all shout directions at the driver.

 

“Tower records!” Joe says, “Slash told us to try Tower Records in the town centre.”

 

The cab is probably speeding the entire way there but their desperation to reach their destination makes it feel like time has slowed down. By the time they get there it’s five minutes past midnight and they all fall out of the cab, throwing money at the driver.

 

The lights are still on inside the record store but the shutters are down. A boy is busy closing up inside, sorting through a stack of records on the counter and putting price stickers on each of them.

 

Mike bangs on the shutters, “Hey!” He cries out, “Hey you!”

 

The boy looks up and steps closer to the shutter, looking at them as if they’re all insane.

 

“We’re Linkin Park and we’re playing a gig in town. Our CD comes out  _now_  and we just want to buy it.”

 

The guy just stares at them blankly, “No can do,” he says, “We’re closed. Come back tomorrow. We open at ten a.m.”

 

Mike looks disheartened when he turns around but Chester wraps an arm around his shoulders, “Don’t worry man, we’ll come back tomorrow.” He says, reassuringly.

 

The moment of disappointment is over. Nothing could really bring them down anyway. They rocked the show tonight, their album comes out tomorrow, and they have  _fans._

 

They walk back to the venue on foot. None of them have the money for a cab back since they over paid their last driver by about twenty or thirty dollars in their haste to get to the store. The night is warm and their spirits are high. So what if it’s about a twenty minute walk? Who cares?

 

Chester slips his hand into the back pocket of Brad’s over sized jeans with a faint smile. They’re all walking on a cloud but Chester knows, almost for certain, that it won’t last. Nothing ever lasts. Least of all happiness.

 

***

 

Two weeks into the tour Scott drags him on stage with them to sing  _Slither_. They stand at the front of the stage with their arms around each other. Chester can feel Brad’s eyes burning into him from the wings but he doesn’t care. He feels alive here, as if this audience is here for  _him_  not Scott.

 

Scott’s hands are cold and they burn his skin where they have slid under his shirt to stroke the small of his back. Once the song ends Chester leaves the stage, waving to the audience as he disappears into the darkness of the wings to where Brad waits, seething.

 

“How can you let him touch you like that?” He spits, disgusted.

 

Chester rolls his eyes and steps away from him, “How can you talk to me like you own me?”

 

Scott turns to look at them as they tear into the next song. He looks right into Chester’s eyes and sings, “You got your demons and your fancy wine, it would go down easy if you’d spend the night.”

 

Brad grits his teeth and storms away. Chester follows with a heavy sigh, “Brad stop it.”

 

He does, spinning round and glaring angrily, looking hurt too, “Are you fucking him?”

 

Chester laughs humourlessly, “Are you  _jealous_?”

 

Brad is red in the face by this time, he grabs Chester’s wrist hard enough to bruise. The Angel flinches away but Brad doesn’t let go, “Are you?”

 

“Brad…fuck, let me go,” Chester hisses, his eyes wide with fear.

 

Brad grips tighter, the fragile bones in his wrist grinding against each other making Chester cry out in pain, desperate to get away. He struggles in vane until Brad’s hold on him loosens completely. He looks up and sees Scott grab a hold of Brad’s shirt, slamming him against the wall.

 

“If you  _ever_  lay a god damn finger on him again I’ll kill you. You got that?” He hisses, his nose pressed to Brad’s.

 

Shakily, Brad mutters, “I thought God doesn’t exist, Lu.”

 

Scott spits into his face and steps away, brushing past a sound tech and grabbing his microphone, heading back on stage for the encore.

 

***

 

After that, things just get worse. Chester’s wrist is circled with black and blue bruises like a bracelet, a constant reminder of the things he’s done. Because in spite of Scott pointing the finger of blame at Brad, this really is his own fault. He never told Brad that he and Scott have never slept together. He thinks he just did it out of spite, just to get some form of revenge.

 

They barely talk anymore. And when they stay the night in hotels Brad rooms with Mike instead of Chester. At first Chester didn’t flinch, thought he maybe just needed some space. But weeks have passed now and they still haven’t even looked each other in the eye.

 

Scott approaches him in the green room one night before a show. He drops onto the couch beside him and drapes an arm over his shoulder. “You and Brad still having a lover’s tiff?” He asks. There’s no malice or sarcasm in his voice, just genuine curiosity.

 

“Yeah,” Chester sighs tiredly, “He won’t talk to me. He thinks we’re fucking.”

 

Scott laughs, a sharp angry bark of a laugh, “You wish, baby face.”

 

Chester chuckles and rests his head on Scott’s shoulder, “Sometimes I think he forgets I got hurt, that I’m not  _his_ to boss about, you know?”

 

“Punch him in the mouth,” Scott smiles deviously, “that usually does the trick.”

 

They sit in comfortable silence. Chester can’t believe that they’re getting along, that they actually want to be around each other. In Heaven he had always thought if he had encountered Lucifer at any point in his life he’d have fought him down, killed him. Even though he knew it wasn’t possible – Chester never  _was_  all that strong – it still made him feel good to know that he had a defined idea of good and of evil.

 

The silence is broken suddenly by Scott laughing.

 

“What?” Chester asks, confused, “What’d I miss?”

 

“Nothing,” Scott sniggers, “I was just thinking. You know we aren’t immortal here, right? We age the same as every other stupid human on the planet.”

 

“Yeah…so what?”

 

“So I’m thinking I should have a kid.”

 

Childbirth, Chester thinks, isn’t really all that funny. But he goes along with it, “Okay so you want a kid. To do that you kind of need a steady relationship. You know, a lovely wife, a lovely house with two dogs and a white picket fence.”

 

“No,” Scott says, “I don’t need any of that cheesy American dream bullshit.” He gets up, digging a battered carton of cigarettes from his pocket. He lights one, taking a long drag. He exhales a stream of smoke and hands the lit cigarette to Chester who takes it gratefully.

 

“So what  _do_  you need, then?” Chester asks, jamming the cigarette between his lips.

 

Scott lights up another, breathing smoke through his nose as he speaks, “You need a lovely victim. That’s all. Anybody with a womb will do.”

 

“A victim?” Chester asks. He isn’t confused. He gets it. He knows what Scott has planned.

 

“Yeah,” Scott says, smiling. He takes another drag from his cigarette and crouches down in front of where Chester sits on the couch. He plants his hands on the other Angel’s knees and blows a cloud of smoke into his face. Chester doesn’t even flinch and Scott laughs, “I just need a victim. And you’re going to help me find her.”


	11. Eleven

Chester stands on the balcony of his hotel room, his wings spread behind him and a cigarette dangling from his long fingers. Scott says he has to find someone by the end of the tour. He says it  _has_  to happen on tour. But Chester is so tired all the time recently, and the nightmares aren’t helping.

 

All of his nightmares are about his attack. He closes his eyes and there is a hand on his throat, pulling him to the ground. When he wakes up his wings ache the way they did, he reaches back to touch them, relieved every time he finds that they aren’t bleeding.

 

Still, his wings are no longer white. The feathers he finds shed on the ground are black as the night. Black as tar. Black like Scott’s wings – black like evil.

 

Like death.

 

He stares at his cigarette and thinks about…everything. The tour is going fantastically. Ever since Brad and Scott’s little outburst they’ve stayed out of each other’s way and everything has been fine. And since Brad hasn’t so much as looked in Chester’s direction since it happened it’s easy for him not to notice the amount of time he is spending with Scott whilst he isn’t looking.

 

He misses Brad some days so much that it’s hard not to cry. He remembers the day they met, how he helped him dry his wings without any questions. Well…okay so he asked a bucket load of questions, but he was kind. Things could have gone very bad. He walked into the right house that night.

 

Things could have been so much worse. There are worse emotions than love for somebody to force on you.

 

Like their own hatred of a race. Nothing says ‘true friendship’ like plotting genocide together.

 

The door to his room opens and he spins around, his wings not disappearing in time so whoever it is will have seen them by now. Maybe he can convince them they’re on drugs – it’s all a hallucination.

 

But it’s Brad. He closes the door after him and smiles sheepishly, “Hi.”

 

Chester stubs his cigarette out. He’d hardly smoked it anyway, just watched the smoke curl toward Heaven. “Hi,” he says, flicking the butt over the edge of the balcony.

 

Brad steps closer as if he’s scared, as if Chester is going to hurt him. He takes tiny little steps closer and takes a deep breath, “I just wanted to talk to you,” he murmurs quietly.

 

They stand what feels like miles apart, silence and awkwardness stretching between them. Chester smiles, reaches out toward Brad as if to say  _come here, stop being stupid, I’m not going to hurt you._  He remains silent, though, even when Brad steps closer and wraps his arms around him.

 

They stand there, hugging, for what could be years. Chester feels safe here, warm. He rests his head on Brad’s shoulder and kisses his neck. “What did you want to talk about?”

 

It takes Brad a while to find the words. Then, “I wanted to apologise, first off.” He says, pulling back from the embrace and holding Chester at arms length to look into his eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you. I see now why envy is a mortal sin. It’s ugly. And I’m sorry.”

 

Chester sighs softly and stares down at their feet. Brad’s sneakers are worn and faded. Every venue they stop at has more merchandise for them to wear, every company under the sun pushing their products for them to wear on stage like living, breathing billboards.

 

Brad, however, refuses to wear anything provided for them. “I will not turn my stage performance into a giant advertisement,” he says.

 

Which is fine by Chester, because that means more free clothes for him.

 

“Me and Scott, we’re not like that you know?” Chester says, looking up again. This has to be as genuine as he can make it. He can’t take another day of cold shouldering. “I’d never do that to you.” He doesn’t say that they’ve already been over this when he got his flame tattoos.

 

“Really?” Brad asks, looking as vulnerable as ever.

 

“Really.” Chester pauses. It’s now or never. “I love you.” He says.

 

Neither of them speak for a long time. Chester is well aware of the fact that this is months overdue. He should have said those three little words when Brad did, back when he was in hospital. God knows he felt it back then. He just couldn’t say it. Maybe it was that he just  _wouldn’t_  say it. Because he is a stubborn asshole.

 

Brad just stares at him as if he doesn’t understand what is going on, as if Chester is speaking in some foreign language.

 

“You do?”

 

“Yes,” Chester laughs. “I always have. Well…you know. Since I met you I have. When you saw me in the sea and didn’t try to kill me or sell me I knew you were a good person. And yeah you made a mistake the other day but that was entirely Scott’s influence and we both know it. Being around him, it’s like putting a magnet on a TV – it just fucks everything up.”

 

He is tempted to ramble on and on forever if it means it will kill the awkward silence between them. But then Brad kisses him and shuts him up. Which is a good thing, really.

 

Chester stands so their toes are touching and kisses him back, his hands going instinctively to Brad’s hair. Those unruly curls which barely fit under the trucker hats Brad has come to favour as of late. When he puts them on it is hard not to make clown jokes or call him Krusty.

 

Or Ronald McDonald.

 

When Brad pulls away it’s because Chester is giggling like a school girl.

 

“What’s so funny?” He says, and kisses him again. Never gets an answer, and never will.

 

***

 

The flight out of America is exciting and Chester doesn’t sit still on the plane. First class is amazing and he pulls the lever to lie back his chair, crushing Joe’s feet behind him.

 

“Dude!” Joe laughs, slapping his head lightly, “You’re doing massive damage to my feet.”

 

“You’re the DJ, you don’t need your feet.”

 

“Everybody needs feet, dick weed. How else would I walk?”

 

Chester says nothing, just pushes his chair back some more so he is lying completely vertical.

 

“Mike!” Joe wails pathetically, “Tell him to quit it!”

 

“Just slide your chair back, Joe, and shut the fuck up. I’m trying to sleep.”

 

“We just took off you big baby.”

 

“I’m tired because  _somebody_  had sex all night right next door to my room. At the top of their fucking lungs.”

 

Chester looks out of the window and giggles guiltily. That’d be him and Brad. He hadn’t realised they were so loud until Rob called them from next door and told them to shut up just as Brad came with a low moan, right down the receiver.

 

Scott had curled up his nose when it became apparent that Brad and Chester were back on speaking terms. “He hurt you,” Scott says.

 

“I forgave him.”

 

This seemed to leave Scott perplexed. Chester doubts he has ever forgiven and forgotten anything in his entire life. And since his age is in the six figure number category now, he doubts he’ll change any time soon.

 

The one time Scott caught them holding hands as they walked to the venue he sneered at them. Chester smirked, gave him the finger and wrapped an arm around Brad’s waist. Playing with fire. He doesn’t know why he does it.

 

He glances to his right to where Brad is sleeping soundly with an eye mask pulled over his face. He had fallen asleep almost the instant they sat down. Chester had made old man jokes which was even funnier when Brad just growled tiredly that at least he wasn’t three hundred and something, asshole.

 

He adjusts his chair so he is sitting up right and flags down the space waitress for some alcohol. Vodka and some energy drink that tastes like metal in his mouth. Like blood. He drinks it slowly and stares out of the window, watching the clouds drift by.

 

He is still staring blankly out of the window clutching his empty glass so hard his knuckles are white when Brad sits up, pushing his eye mask back from his face. He gently takes the glass from Chester’s hand and puts it on his table.

 

“Are we anywhere near heaven?” Brad whispers, leaning in to kiss Chester’s neck.

 

Chester smiles dreamily, “Kind of.”

 

“You must have fallen really far,” Brad frowns, leaning over Chester’s lap to peer out of the tiny window toward the ground which isn’t visible through the clouds.

 

“Yeah. I guess I did.” He pulls Brad back, pushing him back into his seat. He lifts the arm rest that separates them and lies down with his head in Brad’s lap.

 

“You comfy there?” He laughs, stroking Chester’s hair softly.

 

“Mmm. Your crotch is soft.”

 

Brad snorts and blushes, “Um, thanks,” he says, looking around to see if anybody else heard what was said.

 

“I didn’t mean like that!” Chester squeaks, “I mean…it really isn’t. It’s not soft when it counts.”

 

The hole he is digging is just getting deeper and now everybody in the near vicinity is listening in on what he is saying. “Can we stop talking about my crotch, please?”

 

“Don’t worry, they all heard me talking about it last night.”

 

They both burst out laughing and from behind them Mike groans loudly, irritated, “Your fucking sex life is destined to ruin my sleep!”

 

Chester giggles and climbs into Brad’s seat, straddling his lap and grinding down against him dramatically, “Oh fuck, Brad!” He cries out, throwing back his head, “Oh my god  _harder_!”

 

Mike grabs his pillow and smacks Chester around the head with it, getting up and storming to the back of the plane and locking himself in the bathroom whilst everybody around him laughs.

 

***

 

It’s snowing when they touch down in Paris and Chester scrambles over Brad to get off the plane. He only rushes back for his bag and coat when prompted, grabbing them and racing down the aisle to the steps.

 

Mike casts Brad a glance that says  _what the fuck_  and brushes past him tiredly. He never managed to sleep, especially since Chester insisted on getting drunk on the over priced sprits and hyper on the over priced candy.

 

Brad shrugs and smiles, “He’s from Arizona,” he says, “why  _wouldn’t_  he be excited over snow?”

 

He follows the band off the plane with Velvet Revolver following close behind. Brad makes sure to stand between Joe and Rob when Scott steps off the plane. Even though Scott is the epitome of total evil Rob and Joe are bigger than he is.

 

Chester throws down his back pack and coat and runs over to the grass at the side of the runway which is covered in snow. He flings himself onto it, lying on his back and giggling insanely, still high on expensive sugar. He makes snow angels, kicking out his legs and arms happily.

 

Brad wanders over eventually and lies down next to him, joining in. “You know, everybody thinks you’re on drugs.”

 

Chester doesn’t say anything, just gets up and moves to a fresh space and makes a new angel. “Just say no,” he says.

 

Brad laughs and gets up, brushing snow from the back of his jeans. He’s soaked through to the skin but Chester is beaming up at him from the crater of his new snow angel so it’s hard to care. The others are trekking across the runway to the airport and they should join them. But he doesn’t care about that either.

 

“We should get going,” he says eventually after Chester has created another three snow angels. Brad holds out a freezing cold hand for him to take, pulling him to his feet, “Aren’t you cold?”

 

Chester shakes his head but he is visibly shivering, his clothes soaked and covered in mud. “Nope!” He says bravely. “No I’m good!”

 

Brad picks up the Angel’s discarded coat and holds it open for him to slip into easily. Chester fumbles to fasten it up once, twice, then Brad slaps his shaking hands away and takes over for him, zipping it up to his chin. He shoulders is own pack and waits for Chester to pick up his before walking across the grass and toward the airport.

 

“Have you ever been to Europe, Brad?”

 

“No. I think I went to Spain on vacation with my parents once. I got burned and bitten and had to go to hospital.”

 

Chester tries not to laugh, he really does, but a snigger passes his lips before he can stop it, “Sorry,” he says, giggling, “It’s just that you’re so unfortunate.”

 

“Hey! I’m perfectly fortunate, thank you. See, if I hadn’t been such a skinny, pale, dork throughout my childhood I would have never had the urge to learn to play guitar. So we wouldn’t be here, would we? Besides, I had plenty of fun on that vacation.”

 

They come to stand by the others who are waiting at the conveyor belts for their luggage to come round. Chester sighs almost dreamily, “Vacations can last forever,” he says, “they’re not like love affairs.”

 

Brad asks, “What do you mean?”

 

But it’s lost by the alarm as the conveyor belts start to move, and Chester isn’t listening anyway.

 

***

 

They have the night off and France makes Chester want to get lost in the culture, the art, the beauty. Brad spends the entire time bitching that he’s cold. So Chester slips his warm hands under Brad’s shirt to run over his icy skin. Their kisses burn and he shivers whenever Chester touches him.

 

The second he pulls away Brad is trembling again, fingers like ice when they cup Chester’s face whispering desperately, “Please. Please, I need you.”

 

Chester has agreed to meet up with Scott in the lobby in thirty minutes, but Brad’s lips are almost blue despite the thermostat being so high it’s hard to breathe for the heat. So he undresses himself quickly and pushes Brad onto the bed, climbing on beside him and pulling the covers over them both.

 

In the warm, dark tent of the duvet Chester pulls off Brad’s thick sweater and the tattered T-shirt underneath. He strips him of his underwear, his socks and kisses him softly. Brad squints through the darkness until he meets Chester’s eyes, dark with lust like his own.

 

They make love. Brad fists the sheets in his hands, spread wide either side of him as Chester moves inside of him, moaning Brad’s name like a desperate mantra. He grabs both of Brad’s hands, pushing them up above his head and kisses him hard as he increases the pace of his thrusts.

 

He drops a hand between them to wrap around Brad’s erection and breaks the kiss when his breathing gets too ragged. Brad pants, moaning “I love you,” and “God, Ches’, ah fuck.”

 

They come almost simultaneously, Chester arching his back then dropping his head to the crook of Brad’s neck, biting down on the skin there to muffle a loud moan. Brad doesn’t even try to stay quiet, cries out Chester’s name then collapses, breathless.

 

They lie there in the tent of the covers, trying to catch their breath. Brad laughs quietly.

 

“Are you warm now?” Chester asks, kissing the mark he has left on Brad’s neck. He kisses his way up to Brad’s face then kisses his lips softly.

 

“Yes,” Brad purrs contently, “very warm.”

 

Chester nods happily and rolls off of him, lying down beside him. Brad rolls onto his side and wraps an arm around Chester’s slim waist, running a warm hand up and down his back.

 

“I’m thinking of getting another tattoo,” Chester confesses.

 

“Oh? What?”

 

“Linkin Park,” he says, “in big letters on the small of my back. Right where your hand is now.”

 

Brad traces the letters along Chester’s spine, “You sure?” He asks, “What if we break up?”

 

“Then I’ll have it to remind me when I get old and decrepit,” Chester smiles. “It can just be there to remind me of one of the best times of my life.”

 

“One of?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What was the  _best_  time of your life?”

 

Chester shrugs, “I don’t know. It might not have happened yet. But it involves you somehow. I know that much.”

 

Brad beams, flattered. He kisses Chester again and bites his lip. “Do you think, maybe, it could ever be now?”

 

“Now is good,” Chester nods, “but I like to think our life will get better than this. We’ll have headlining tours of our own. And me and you will be this big rock star couple and people will admire us for being proud or whatever.”

 

Brad laughs, “Yeah,” he says, “we’ll be so famous. On the covers of Rolling Stone and the equivalent all over the world and people will know all of our lyrics.”

 

“Exactly!”

 

They lie in comfortable silence. Somewhere in the room the cell phone Nokia gave Chester for free vibrates on silent. It’ll be Scott and he knows how much trouble he could get in if he ignores it but he does anyway. Because Brad is worth it.

 

His cell phone buzzes another six times before Chester rolls out of bed with a groan to answer it. He pads over to his bag naked and roots through it, digging out the phone and thumbing the answer button, “Hello?”

 

Brad sits up, pushing back the covers. His hair is a bigger mess than it usually is and when Chester looks over he snorts, loudly and with no dignity whatsoever down the phone.

 

Scott, down the line he snaps, “Would you just move your fucking ass? It’s Arctic out here.”

 

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Chester sighs and terminates the call, dumping his cell back into his bag.

 

He grabs his boxers from his discarded pile of clothes and pulls them on. Much to Brad’s disapproval he pulls on his jeans too, buckling his belt.

 

Brad plumps up the pillows and rests back against them, pulling the sheets up to his chest to keep warm, “Where you going?”

 

“Just out with Rob.”

 

“You’re such a liar,” Brad says, rolling his eyes. Chester looks up once he pulls on his shirt and is relived that Brad doesn’t look pissed off or upset in anyway. He doesn’t seem to mind at all. That could be because he’s just had his brains fucked out.

 

“Sorry,” Chester murmurs, timidly, spraying deodorant and cologne liberally. If Scott knows he was stood up for him to fuck Brad he’ll be in a lot of trouble.

 

Brad gets up for a second, grabbing his boxers from where they have been kicked to the floor. He pulls them on and climbs back into bed with a lazy smile, “Pass me my bag, Ches’.”

 

Chester laughs, “You’re right next to the fucking thing!” He grabs it anyways. He constantly feels like he owes Brad something. That would be a guilty conscience, then.

 

Brad digs through the bag quickly and pulls out a bag of gummy candy he stole from the plane. “You know how you were saying you want the best day of your life to be with me?”

 

Chester continues to get ready, nods absently.

 

“Well, I want mine to be with you, too.” He says. “Ches’, come here.”

 

Chester looks up, pads over to the bed and sits down next to Brad who holds out a red and white gummy ring. “Brad?”

 

Shakily, Brad takes a deep breath and looks into Chester’s eyes. “Will you marry me?”

 

Chester stares at him silently for a long time. Too long. The moment to say something passes by them with an almost audible  _whoosh_  and Brad ducks his head.

 

“Yeah,” he says, “sorry it was a dumb idea.”

 

Chester nods, shocked, “Yeah,” he says. “Only…maybe it’s not so dumb.” He gets up, runs a hand through his hair, “I have to go.”

 

Brad doesn’t even look up.

 

“I never said no, Brad. I’m just…I’ve never…you know?”

 

Brad nods, eats the ring and stuffs the candy back into his bag which he shoves onto the floor. “Have fun with Scott.”

 

“You know I won’t.”

 

“Then don’t go.”

 

But he does, leaving silently and closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

 

***

 

Scott is standing outside with a scarf pulled tight around his neck like a noose. He has his hands buried deep into his coat pockets and when he sees Chester coming he exhales in an angry sigh, his breath creating steam all around him.

 

“Where the fuck have you been?”

 

“Um…Brad…he…uh…”

 

“Uh…uh…what the fuck ever,” Scott snaps, “let’s go.”

 

Chester follows him like an obedient lap dog for a couple of streets before asking, “Where  _are_  we going?”

 

“You’ll see.”

 

They stop outside of a hotel which is almost falling down. The windows on the ground floor are broken and the curtains inside flap loose in the night breeze. Scott nods to the dimly lit reception area within. “Go get us a room,” Scott says.

 

But all Chester can hear is Brad asking  _will you marry me_  over and over in his head like a broken record. Scott’s anger is almost a tangible presence and soon Brad’s voice is over taken by his, telling him to get the fuck in the hotel and get a room.

 

“I’ll be back soon,” Scott says. “Give me a call when you get the room.”

 

Brad’s voice is gone from Chester’s mind entirely and he smiles almost devilishly, ducking inside the dilapidated building and approaching the front desk. “I’d like a room.” He says to the man sitting slumped behind the reception desk.

 

The man shows no signs of having heard Chester speak. He tries again, louder this time and the man begins to snore. Fuck this, Chester thinks. He leans over the desk and grabs the first key that comes to hand. Number thirteen. He smirks, perfect.

 

He wastes no time, hurries up the stairs following the room numbers until he finds thirteen. The hotel is so old it still has keys and locks rather than magnetic cards. He sticks the key into the door and turns it, stepping inside.

 

It smells the way you’d imagine a coffin would smell and it’s pitch black inside. He closes the door and flicks on the lights before going over to the window and pulling back the curtains which creates a cloud of dust so thick he can’t breathe. In his pocket his cell phone buzzes until he answers it.

 

“Did you get us a room?” Scott asks, impatiently. In the background Chester can hear muffled cries and protests.

 

“Yeah. Thirteen. This place is a shit hole, man, what the fuck are we here for?”

 

“Well,” Scott says, out of breath, “since you wouldn’t go out and find me a girl I had to wait until we got some place we could hide and found her myself.”

 

“You’re bringing her here?!”

 

“Yeah,” Scott laughs. “You’ll like her. She’s pretty.”

 

Chester shakes his head, “Just hurry the fuck up, okay, this place gives me the heebie jeebies.”

 

Scott doesn’t say good bye he just hangs up and there’s only three sharp beeps to let Chester know he’s gone.

 

Chester sits on the bed and tries not to think about the number of mysterious stains on the sheets, and waits for Scott to get back.

 

***

The woman Scott brings back wears rosary beads around her neck and has a bible tucked under her arm.

 

“This is Mary,” Scott says to Chester, smiling, “She’s come to rid you of your sins against God.”

 

Chester smirks and gets up from where he sits on the bed, “Hello Sister,” he says. “You have to help me.”

 

Scott pushes her forward toward the bed and Chester sits back down beside her. Her eyes are electric blue and full of wisdom. Trust, too. They’re full of trust. And as Chester pulls a cigarette from the battered carton in his pocket and lights up, that trust flickers out momentarily before being replaced with terror as Scott jumps on her.

 

Chester doesn’t watch, stands and stalks over to the window and smokes lazily instead. He can tell from her panicked pleas that Scott is stripping her down. Then himself. She is crying out, “Please, God,” she begs, “Oh God!”

 

“God,” Chester hisses, turning around and letting his wings appear behind him like a black cloud, “is not here.”

 

Scott pushes into her hard, gripping her slim hips as he fucks her. He moans and bites down on her earlobe, groping her breasts.

 

Chester watches from the corner, cigarette hanging lazily from his fingers, “Tell him you love him, Mary,” he demands.

 

Mary sobs in agony and writhes beneath Scott. This does not deter him, only turns him on further as his thrusts increase in energy.

 

“Tell him!” Chester yells.

 

And Mary, she’s back to begging, reaching out one arm toward where Chester stands and muttering, “Michael, oh Michael save me.” She keeps saying over and over, “Deliver me. Saint Michael, help me.”

 

Chester snorts, “I’m no Archangel. I’m not delivering you from anything.”

 

Scott looks up and meets Chester’s eyes, “She feels amazing,” he murmurs huskily, “You should give her a try.”

 

Chester shakes his head and takes a long drag from his cigarette, “No thanks. I’m good.”

 

Scott comes with a cry, his wings flexing behind him as his back arches, “Oh fuck yeah,” he shudders, emptying himself inside of her.

 

Mary begins to cry again, tiredly this time. Scott pulls out and wipes himself off on the dirty sheets, rolling his eyes when she curls up, “It’s not over yet, you silly bitch,” he spits, climbing off the bed and wandering over to Chester.

 

“It isn’t over?”

 

“Not yet. Need to go again, just in case.”

 

Chester smirks and leans in, kissing Scott deeply. Tasting blood, dirt and sin on his tongue.

 

They keep her there for hours, Chester watching as she is raped and beaten into submission. He knows he should feel guilty, knows that not  _that_  long ago somebody was hurting him the way they are hurting Mary. He knows how she’ll never ever forget Scott’s hands on her body; his words will run through her head until she dies.

 

Scott pulls her up off the bed and throws her clothes at her. As she dresses with shaking, bloodied hands he picks up her rosary beads and dangles them in front of her face.

 

“You know, abortion is a sin.” He says, waving them at her, pulling away when she reaches for them, “So when you find out you’re pregnant you don’t fucking dare kill that baby. Or I’ll find you.”

 

She grabs the rosary beads from him and races from the room.

 

“She’ll call the cops,” Chester says, blankly.

 

“We’d better get out of here, then.”

 

Mary  _does_  call the cops, but the room is empty by the time they get there. No DNA is found when forensic scientists scour the place. The sheets are clean, folded back with mints on each pillow. The room, the owner says, is as clean as the day the hotel was built.

 

And a rape test brings back nothing.

 

They think she’s crazy.

 

But she’s pregnant.

 

And Chester and Scott are laughing.

 


	12. Twelve

They walk, almost drunkenly, through the dark streets of Paris. As they left the shit hole of a hotel the snow was just beginning to fall again leaving a fresh layer on the ground. Chester bends down and picks up a handful, packs it into a firm ball and throws it at Scott’s head.

 

Scott whirls around and glares.

 

“Dude!” Chester laughs, “You just got laid, chill out.”

 

Scott rolls his eyes and keeps walking. “You’ve been hanging around your asshole hippy friends too much.”

 

Chester can’t feel the cold anymore, just Scott’s voice in his head, his presence in his bloodstream like the purest heroin.

 

“What are you going to tell Brad?” Scott asks.

 

“I’ll tell him we went for a couple of drinks. Then I’ll fuck him. He’ll forget pretty fast.”

 

“No,” Scott laughs, coming to a halt. Chester can see their hotel just a couple of feet away and longs for it, suddenly. But Scott is grabbing his chin between rough fingers and jerking his head so their eyes meet, “What are you going to say to his proposal, I mean?”

 

Chester pulls away, rubs his jaw, “How do you know about that?”

 

“I know  _everything_  baby. You had relationship breakdown written all over that pretty face of yours. I could have guessed easy enough.”

 

He quite literally read his mind. This doesn’t surprise Chester as much as it probably should. He sighs and shrugs, “I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

 

“Say no. He’s an asshole anyway.”

 

Scott turns on his heel and stalks toward the hotel, leading with his hips like any model here in Paris waiting to be exploited by the fashion industry. Chester trails after him. He feels drained, now, his happy energy has been sucked from him. It’s not Mary, although he thinks he should probably care more about the state they left her in.

 

It’s Brad. It’s all Brad. It’s  _always_  Brad.

 

By the time he reaches the hotel Scott has disappeared to his own room. Chester makes a move to go to the elevator but heads to the bar instead. He wants some peace, he needs some thinking time.

 

Not that he’ll get any tonight as, when he walks in, the first thing he notices is Brad slumped at the bar with his coat pulled tight around him even though the hotel is warm enough to walk around in with just a T-shirt.

 

He hesitates for only a second before pulling out a stool beside Brad and sitting on it. He rests his head on the bar and looks onto Brad’s eyes, “I didn’t say no, Bradface.”

 

Brad says nothing, “You didn’t say yes either.”

 

“Is it too late?” Chester asks. “To say yes, I mean.”

 

“Only if you don’t mean it.”

 

Chester doesn’t care what Scott says. He doesn’t care what anybody says. He knows Mike and Jeff will probably kill them both when they find out but he couldn’t give a shit. “I mean it,” he says with all the passion he can, “I really mean it. I love you.”

 

“I ate your engagement ring.”

 

Chester laughs and runs a hand through Brad’s messy hair, “That’s okay, we can get another.”

 

“Maybe a real one?” Brad asks.

 

“Yeah,” Chester nods, smiling, “yeah that’d be nice.”

 

They sit there for most of the night, unmoving, with their heads laying on the bar and their arms around each other. And Brad ignores how Chester smells like cigarette smoke and Scott. Because some things aren’t worth confronting.

 

There’s always tomorrow.

 

***

 

Chester wakes up in the bed he shared with Brad alone. He wonders what awoke him as it’s only eight thirty and they don’t have sound check for hours. Then he hears it, the soft hiss of the shower running behind the closed bathroom door.

 

He lies back, disheartened. He thought Brad had forgiven him but maybe not. Last night they stayed at the bar until the staff started closing up and they drifted upstairs, hand in hand. They undressed in silence and climbed into bed. Chester wanted to say something, he wanted to explain himself.

 

“I love you,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around Brad’s waist and pulling him closer, “and I’m so sorry I left. Nobody has ever loved me the way you do. So I’m still reeling.”

 

And Brad gave a tiny smile and nodded slowly. “I love you too,” he said. “Good night, Ches’.”

 

“Night, Bradface.”

 

He gets up, pushing open the bathroom door. Steam billows out into the bedroom and he steps into the mist. He closes the door after him and pulls off his boxers, stepping out of them and pulling open the glass door of the shower cubicle. Brad jumps, startled and spins around, his expression softening when he sees Chester.

 

“Hey,” He says, stepping out from under the water to wrap his arms around Chester’s waist.

 

Chester drapes his arms over Brad’s shoulders and kisses him softly, “Well aren’t you a mole on dawn’s shining butt crack?,” he says, “I woke up alone and…I apparently can’t be far away from you or I can’t function. Nothing says true love like total dependence, right?”

 

Brad smiles and kisses him to shut him up mid ramble.

 

“I really am so sorry about how I reacted. Please don’t be mad at me,” Chester murmurs.

 

Brad frowns, “I’m not mad. I was a bit hurt last night, but I’m okay now. I know you were just scared.”

 

“You’re not? So what’s with getting up before noon? Usually I have to plant a bomb under you to get your ass to move.”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Brad laughs, “so I figured I’d take a shower. I was going to wake you up when I was done. I was thinking we could go sight seeing before rehearsals and what not?”

 

Chester grins and nods, “That sounds like a plan to me.” He runs his hands through Brad’s soaked hair. He feels safe here. He almost dreads having to get out, get dry and face the rest of the world. Mostly he dreads facing Scott. “I had an idea for my next tattoo,” he says.

 

“Yeah you told me. The Linkin Park thing? I think it’s a really good idea.”

 

“Oh no, this will come before that,” Chester nods. He gives into the urge to kiss away the droplets of water from Brad’s neck and shoulder. “It’s a secret. But you have to get one too.”

 

“It’s…it’s against my religion,” Brad shivers.

 

Chester laughs and presses him back against the cold tile wall, kissing him, ”Isn’t  _this_  against your religion, too?” He runs a hand down the smooth skin of Brad’s chest, down across his stomach to his crotch, jerking him off slowly until he’s fully hard.

 

“You only want me for sex.” Brad mumbles breathlessly.

 

“You’re onto me,” Chester smiles, kissing him again.

 

***

 

It’s freezing cold when they leave the hotel and Chester burrows into his scarf until only his eyes are visible. Brad digs his hands deep into his pockets and sighs, his breath clouding in front of his face. He glances at Chester and laughs, “You look like an Eskimo,” he says.

 

“At least I’m not going to have icicles hanging from my face,” Chester grins smugly. He pulls one hand from his pocket briefly to link arms with Brad before pushing it back in with a shiver. “Fucking winter in Europe. Who’s bright idea was this?”

 

“Warner’s.” Brad says, pulling Chester closer with his arm. “Where are we going, anyway?”

 

“I thought we could go to a tattoo studio. Then sight seeing.”

 

“Can we do indoor sight seeing?” Brad asks as they cross the street, trying to dodge puddles of melted snow now turned to dirty slush on the ground. “Like, you know, museums? Warm places.”

 

Chester giggles and nods, leading Brad down a narrow street toward the shops, “Sure. We can. I wanna see the Mona Lisa.”

 

“I’ve heard it’s tiny.” He moves out of the way of a cyclist and walks straight into another person with a dog, the leashes getting tangled around his legs. He yelps when the little dogs start snapping angrily at his ankles until the owner untangles their leashes and drags them away, muttering huffily under her breath in French.

 

“Then that’s not the only tiny thing I’ll have seen on this trip,” Chester says with a smile, un-phased.

 

Brad blinks, then gawps. He stops walking but Chester doesn’t and he stumbles a little, not unlinking their arms. Brad glares at him, “I hope you mean Joe in the communal shower.”

 

“Of course I do.” Chester smiles mischievously, “What did you think I meant?”

 

Brad just rolls his eyes and lets Chester lead him down a side street and onto another main street lined with tiny shops. The kind of places that sell incense oils and burners and hand made jewellery and have beaded curtains hanging inside of the door. Each shop they walk past smells like roses or lavender, smoke curling out of the doorways like beckoning hands.

 

“Where are we going?” Brad asks, “You always take me to the most random places.”

 

Chester drags him into a store and Brad is immediately zoomed back to Kahlen and the flames and sitting in the car whilst they did…whatever. Then Chester tugs urgently on his hand and drags him to the counter.

 

“Is this place even, like, you know, licensed?” Brad whispers quietly, looking around.

 

“Yeah it is. A fan at the hotel recommended it to me. He had Scott’s face tattooed on his arm, how  _weird_  is that?” Chester laughs, pushing the buzzer stuck to the wood top of the counter.

 

Brad says nothing, just stares at their now laced fingers and smiles dreamily. Some day it will be fans with Chester’s face tattooed on their arms, and the idea makes him giddy. The idea of that much fame, of having people look up to them the way he once looked up to people makes him want to go back to the studio now and start their next album.

 

By the time they release another album, he thinks, he and Chester will be married.

 

And he can hardly hide his grin as the tattoo artist appears. He is a tall, thin guy with perfect English and barely a trace of an accent.

 

“We want engagement bands,” Chester says, “tattooed around our fingers.”

 

Brad stares, wide eyed, “Engagement bands? Seriously?”

 

Chester shifts his weight anxiously, “Yeah,” he says, playing with his hands, “I can’t afford a proper ring. But someday we’ll be able to. Until then, though, don’t you think this is perfect? Don’t you think this is more permanent than a ring made of metal?”

 

Yes, he does. But not so long ago Chester was terrified at the idea of getting married. Brad’s facial expression must give him away, because Chester chews his lip and pulls him away from the counter.

 

“We don’t have to,” he says, sounding more than a little disappointed, “if you don’t want to we don’t have to. It was just an idea. I thought it might make up for my shitty behaviour.”

 

Brad smiles, leans in and kisses him despite the tattoo artist staring at them from behind the counter.

 

It hurts. It doesn’t take very long to do, but it hurts like a bitch. Chester sits in the chair with his arm outstretched looking mildly interested for the entire thing. And just like the last time the guy frowns, says, “You’re not even bleeding.”

 

“Yeah. I think I’m just brilliant.” Chester says, looking up to meet Brad’s eyes over the bent figure of the tattooist and winks. Their big secret.

 

He should have known it would hurt, even if Chester didn’t so much as blink throughout the entire thing. It felt like a thousand paper cuts, and he closed his eyes and hummed the song to himself.

 

But then it is over. Chester stands beside him and stretches out his arm beside Brad’s comparing their new tattoos. “It looks great,” he utters.

 

Brad looks up at him and grins, “Yeah, it does. This was a good idea.”

 

They pay the man, thanking him. They head back out into the cold, re-linking their arms.

 

“So,” Chester says, “which warm sight seeing would you like to do first?”

 

“The Louvre. I want to see the tiny Mona Lisa in all her tiny glory.”

 

“I think she’d have a massive cock is she was a guy. Or maybe she  _does_  have a cock!” Chester exclaims excitedly as if he has discovered the meaning for life, “That’s what that enigmatic smile bullshit is all about. She’s watching every guy in the entire museum laughing to herself like, my wang is twice the size of yours.”

 

“Ten inches…around,” Brad grins. An elderly woman who passes them overhears their conversation and stares, mildly disgusted. Brad winks at her and licks his lips.

 

Chester gawps. He pulls his arm away and slaps Brad playfully, “You’re disgusting.”

 

Brad nods and smiles, “Yeah. But she wanted me. And besides, you’re the one talking about Mona Lisa’s massive cock, you weirdo. But didn’t DaVinci paint people with tiny cocks?”

 

“Why the fuck would I know the answer to that question?” Chester snorts.

 

“Well, you know, the Vitruvian Man wasn’t exactly well hung, was he? So surely that implies that Mona would have a little weiner too.”

 

They cross the Palais Royal toward the glass pyramid above the Louvre, passing tourists with their cameras on straps around their neck and their camera phones held at arms length to take photos of themselves with the pyramid in the background. “Why are we still having this conversation?” Chester asks as they join the line to get into the museum.

 

“You started it!”

 

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “but you’re the one still talking about it.”

 

Brad rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet from his pocket. His new tattoo catches against the inside of his pants and he hisses, the pain returning for a brief moment. Chester glances at him worriedly. Brad smiles and goes back to digging through his wallet. He pulls out a handful of Euros and thrusts them at the girl in the booth who gives him most of them back with a smile that says  _I’ve been here all day, please don’t do this to me._

 

Chester lets Brad lead him around the museum and even pretends to be interested in the art. It’s not that he doesn’t like it; he really respects the artists’ talents, he just thinks he’ll throw up violently and copiously if he sees another painting of the archangels. As if Michael has perfect, golden curls and a symmetrical face.

 

More like a receding hair line, crow’s feet and an ulcer from stress.

 

The Mona Lisa  _is_  tiny and disappointing, in Chester’s opinion. Brad seems awe struck by it so he smiles and nods when he says, “Isn’t it awesome?”

 

He cocks his head to the side and sighs. It’s kind of like meeting your hero then finding out he’s an asshole. He hopes nobody is ever this disappointed by him.

 

Then he realises that Brad will end up feeling this way once he finds out about the terrible things he has done. It’s only a matter of time, really, until it all comes out in the open. It’s only a matter of time until he slips up. But once you start talking to Lucifer you can’t just stop.

 

Fuck.

 

Brad turns from the painting and catches Chester’s distant expression. He slips an arm around his waist and kisses his cheek, “You okay?”

 

Chester shakes himself out of it and nods, “Yeah I’m fine,” he lies, and listens as Brad continues to ramble about the painting and the theories behind it excitedly.

 

***

 

When they get back to the hotel Chester is exhausted. They stayed out all day and went ‘cold sightseeing’ even though Brad bitched and moaned the entire time. They went to the Tuileries Gardens after they left the museum. They then walked to the Arc de Triomphe and Champs Elysées, rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

 

“Someone once told me,” Brad said as they stood at the edge, the icy wind blowing around them angrily, “that if you dropped a penny from the top of the Eiffel Tower it would kill someone.”

 

“I thought that was the Empire State Building.” Chester said, not tearing his gaze away from the ground, snow covering everything like icing sugar.

 

Brad just shrugged, “Same thing. The point is; even the smallest things can kill.”

 

No, Chester thought, the point is; the higher something falls from, the deadlier it is. And he spent a lot of time thinking about how Heaven really is from Earth.

 

They trudge across the lobby of the hotel to the elevator, pressing the button for the tenth floor and counting down the seconds until they reach it. “I need a fucking shower,” Chester complains, “I think my  _piss_  is frozen.”

 

“Piss can’t freeze when it’s in your body,” Brad points out with a smirk causing Chester to just roll his eyes. Brad shoves him forward out of the elevator when it stops. They have thirty minutes before they have to leave for the venue and Chester plans to spend it wisely.

 

He races into the bathroom the second he steps foot in the room and moans loudly when the hot water rushes over his body. Brad joins him eventually and they both stand there under the stream of the water as the cold is washed away.

 

After that it’s a mad dash to get ready and get to the cars with the blacked out windows waiting to drive them to the venue. Chester doesn’t care what it does to his hair, he pulls a thick beanie over his head and wraps his scarf around his neck, pulls on his thick coat and his gloves.

 

When they meet up with the rest of the band in the lobby Joe smirks, “Going on an Arctic expedition there, Sir Ranulph Fiennes?”

 

Chester glares at him but says nothing. Partly because he can’t for the scarf around his face and mostly because he knows Joe will have a ridiculous comeback for anything he could possibly come up with.

 

“Where have you guys been all day?” Mike asks, “I was looking for you.”

 

“We went sightseeing,” Brad smiles, “and we got tattooed.”

 

Mike stares.

 

Chester pulls off one glove and holds out his hand to show off his new tattoo. Brad does the same, beaming proudly.

 

“Oh my God!” Dave squeals, “You guys are engaged?”

 

Rob thumps him on the arm and shushes him but turns to them and smiles. “That’s awesome you guys, really awesome.”

 

Even Mike smiles, which surprises them both. It also makes them a little suspicious, but at least he isn’t yelling. Mike pretending to be happy is better than Mike preaching about homophobia and how much trouble their relationship will cause for the band. Talk about a boring speech.

 

“What are we waiting for?” Mike asks, looking between them all.

 

“Velvet Revolver?”

 

“Nah they’re already at the venue. Let’s go.”

 

They pile into the cars and sit in silence for the most part until they arrive at the arena. That is when Mike pipes up, “Oh,” he says, “Jeff told me to tell you guys that they’d really cranked the heating up in the dressing rooms and shit for us. I think that’s a warning.”

 

He was right, it  _was_  a warning. When they get to the room marked “Linkin Park” Scott and Velvet Revolver’s drummer Matt are lounging on the couch.

 

“Oh hey!” Rob grins, pointing, “Aren’t you that singer, from that band? Um…Velcro Handgun? I dunno.”

 

Scott smirks, “I see you’ve been working on your wit. You’re getting faster, Robbie, you’re like a speeding bullet now.”

 

Rob takes a bow before disappearing out of the room, following the signs that say “Catering”.

 

“Phew!” Matt says, getting to his feet, “It’s hotter than the fucking fires of Hell in here.”

 

Scott’s smile turns into one of irony and he meets Chester’s eyes. Brad must be staring at them both because he can feel his gaze boring into him.

 

Chester doesn’t say anything. He pulls off his coat and his scarf, walking over to his wardrobe case and hanging them up along with his other outfits. He pulls off his beanie, ruffling his hair and praying it isn’t flat before dumping it in the bottom of the case with his gloves.

 

“Oh! So you said ‘yes’, then?”

 

Chester turns to Scott who raises an eyebrow and nods at the dark tattoo snaking its way around his and Brad’s fingers.

 

“Yeah,” Chester replies, teeth gritted, “of course I said ‘yes’.”

 

The tension in the room is almost unbearable. And Scott doesn’t leave until everybody is aware of it, and when he goes he smiles sadly at Brad who gives him the finger.

 

Brad turns to Chester immediately and stares, blankly, “You told him I proposed?”

 

“No.” It’s the truth.

 

“Yes you did. How else would he know?”

 

“He  _guessed_ , Brad. I would never tell him shit about our private lives. Jesus.”

 

“He just guessed? He just read your mind?” Brad laughs, disbelieving.

 

“Think, for just one second, what you’re asking.”

 

In a room full of people it’s hard to explain that yes, Lucifer  _did_  read his mind. He sighs when Brad’s angry expression doesn’t relent and steps closer, putting his hands on Brad’s hips and brushing their noses together.

 

Suddenly, Brad gets it. And he nods with a quiet sigh. “What an asshole,” he says.

 

“Me?” Chester asks, “Or Scott?”

 

Brad doesn’t get a chance to answer because Rob bursts into the room with a fistful of breadstick in each hand, “Dude!” He yells excitedly, waving the breadsticks around, “The food is fucking amazing. You should all go check it out!”

 

Brad waits until everybody has left before going to trail after them but Chester grabs his hand and pulls him back into the room, sliding the bolt across.

 

“Don’t you want breadsticks?”

 

Chester giggles and shakes his head. He pulls off his shirt, the heat in the room already unbearable. Brad kisses him, pulling him close. He steps back momentarily to pull off his own shirt but soon resumes contact, shivering when their bare skin touches. He runs his fingers over Chester’s wings pressing his other hand to the small of his back and pulling their hips together.

 

Chester is just reaching down to unfasten Brad’s jeans when a knock on the door interrupts them followed by Dave’s voice, “I don’t even want to  _know_  what the hell you guys are up to in there but it’s rehearsal time so move your asses out here now.” He pauses, “Please.”

 

Brad laughs and pulls away but is left breathless by the sight of Chester’s wings. They’re almost completely black, now, with only a few white and dyed red feathers clinging on.

 

“What – ”

 

Chester must not hear him because he grabs both of their shirts from the floor, throwing Brad’s towards him with a wry smile, “Perfect timing, huh?” He says as his wings disappear and he pulls on his shirt.

 

“Yeah…” Brad murmurs, pulling on his own and trying not to think about it. Now is  _not_  the time to ask about it so he doesn’t.

 

They head out onto the stage where the bass sound check is well under way. The deafening kick of the drum along with the riff that the bass technician is working through makes Brad’s heart beat out of time.

 

Or maybe that’s because of Chester. It’s hard to tell anymore.

 

The sound check goes smoothly and the rehearsal smoother. Brad falters and misses a note once when he sees Scott sitting up in the Gods at the back of the arena watching them. Mostly it’s the irony that gets him, but Mike’s stern glare makes him pull it together quickly and carry on.

 

They leave the stage eventually and Brad hands his guitar to his technician with a smile, thanking him as he begins to restring it. As they head back to the dressing room they pass the empty room that belongs to Velvet Revolver and for some reason Brad stops walking. He ducks inside and glances around. If anybody asks he’ll say he was looking for Slash, or going for  _a_  slash, either works just fine.

 

Then he sees Scott’s wardrobe case and in it the infamous military hat he is never seen without.

 

How could he not steal it? How could he just leave it there?

 

He nabs it, shoving it under his shirt and hurrying outside. He shivers when the snow lands on his skin but he keeps walking until he finds a dumpster, and throws the hat in.

 

He can’t stop laughing on his way back to the dressing room and when Joe bumps into him Brad cracks up.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

“Divine retribution,” Brad snorts.

 


	13. Thirteen

He retreats to the dressing room with Joe bounding along beside him like a hyperactive puppy dog. Brad laughs, “What the hell did you have for breakfast?”

 

“Lucky Charms,” Joe says, out of breath but still skipping, “I’m just really excited about the show tonight. It’s sold out faster than any of the shows on the tour. Isn’t that cool?”

 

It is. Very cool indeed. He doesn’t really need Jeff Blue constantly reminding them how big a band Velvet Revolver are and how they’ve done them an  _amazing_  favour, he can see it on his own. He supposes that’s one good thing about Scott – at least he knows how to pick a good band to join.

 

“I can’t believe you guys are getting married!” Joe grins, “That’s even cooler than any sell out show. I didn’t even know you were planning on asking him.”

 

“It was pretty spur of the moment. I thought he was going to say no.”

 

“Like he could say no to you. Have you seen how lost he is without you?”

 

Yeah he has, how could he not have noticed that. He knows it’s just that Chester is scared of being hurt again and that he trusts Brad. But sometimes he does it with Scott too, treating Brad like the guy in the alley, the one who haunts both of their dreams.

 

Brad often wonders if Chester is as close to him as he is because he’s the nearest. He’s the one willing to share his house, his food, his money. And Mike would never do that because he is completely incapable of human emotions such as compassion. Rob has a girlfriend, Dave has a roommate already and Joe doesn’t even have enough money for himself.

 

But then he hears the Angel’s voice in his head, telling him he loves him. And he stops wondering.

 

When they reach the dressing room Chester is saying, “But it’s a good song!”

 

And Mike is saying, “I don’t care. The point of touring is to promote your own album, not somebody else’s.”

 

“But it’s not promoting their album! It’s just showing the audience that we can do other stuff.”

 

“No,” Mike says, “We’re not doing a cover.”

 

Brad steps into the room and raises an eyebrow, “What song?”

 

“Closer by the Nine Inch Nails,” Chester beams.

 

Joe twists his face, “It’s a good song but it kind of goes against our whole no swearing policy, doesn’t it?”

 

God bless Joe for being a natural placatory. When he wants to be, anyway. Chester sighs and nods, “I guess. But I think it’d be fucking awesome.”

 

Brad rolls his eyes and walks over to the couch, flopping down onto it with a weary sigh. He listens as Chester hums every song from some Nine Inch Nails album to himself as he removes his chipped black nail polish and applies a fresh coat neatly. He only stops humming to blow on them but continues as he begins to wave his hands through the air.

 

Outside of the dressing room Scott stomps past angrily. He shouts to somebody down the corridor with so much malice in his voice that Brad’s blood runs cold. “If you fucking touched it I will kill you. Thought you would have learned that by now, mother fucker.”

 

***

 

At some point before they left the states Rob gave Vanessa their hotel details for Paris and the date they’d be there and a ticket to fly out and visit them. Her flight touches down when they’re playing hide and seek back stage and Rob’s phone rings loudly, some old AC-DC song.

 

Joe pulls back the curtain the drummer is hiding behind and grins “I got you!” He yells triumphantly.

 

Rob rolls his eyes and answers his phone, pressing it to his ear, “Hello? Hey Nessi! … Yeah we’re at the venue right now but I can come get you if you want? … No it’s no problem at all I’ll be five minutes…okay, bye. Love you too.”

 

He hangs up and gives Joe the finger. Joe stops making kissy faces and groans, “So you going to get the wife?”

 

“She isn’t my wife but yes, she’s at the hotel. So I’m going to get one of the guys to drive me back to get her. Will you tell the others?”

 

From where Chester crouches, hidden behind the equipment cases he says, “We will!”

 

Joe turns toward the sound, “Hey! Where are you?” He heads off in the wrong direction letting Chester sneak out of his hiding place and run along side Rob to the exit.

 

“I didn’t know she was coming.” Chester says, “You’re so sneaky.”

 

Rob laughs and nods, zipping up his coat as they head outside, “I know she hates when we tour. I mean, she loves it because she knows this has always been my dream, you know? But she worries herself sick and I hate the idea of what that could do to our relationship.”

 

Chester smiles knowingly, “I think it’s really nice that you’re getting her out here. But I don’t think you have to worry about your relationship. She really loves you.”

 

“You’ve only met her once,” Rob smirks, “how could you know that?”

 

“I just do. Because I’m brilliant. I’m gonna head back in because my balls have completely frozen over by now. See you when you get back.”

 

Rob keeps walking, heading to the parking lot and laughing, “See you!”

 

***

 

Whenever Vanessa walks she could be on a catwalk in Milan. With the wind in her hair she looks beautiful as she and Rob walk from the car to where Chester stands at the back door with his hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of coffee. It’s freezing, but inside Scott is busy threatening to stab everybody to death so he’d rather be outside.

 

“Hey,” Chester smiles as they approach.

 

“Hi,” Vanessa says, wrapping an arm around Rob’s waist. Protectively, not possessively.

 

“How was your flight?”

 

“It was okay,” she nods, considering it. “I’ve never been a huge fan of flying.”

 

Rob clears his throat, “Can we please continue this conversation inside? It’s fucking freezing out here.”

 

Chester laughs and nods, knocking back the remainder of his coffee before launching the cup at a trash can to his right. He turns, pulling open the fire escape and disappearing inside with Rob and Vanessa following him.

 

They walk down the long corridor leading to the green room and Chester notices Scott leaning against the door way of his dressing room, arms folded defensively over his chest. He watches them approach, studying Vanessa carefully.

 

Chester goes to just walk past him but Scott’s hand shoots out and wraps around Chester’s arm with a vice like grip. Rob stops walking and raises a questioning eyebrow.

 

“Go on ahead,” Chester smiles, nods, “the other guys are in the green room. I’ll be along soon.” He lets Scott drag him into the empty dressing room, the door slamming behind him.

 

“She’s an angel.” Scott says, smiling devilishly.

 

“She is?”

 

“A Guardian, if I’m not mistaken. Does your little drummer boy need a babysitter?”

 

Chester glares, “Guardian Angels are not babysitters. They’re necessary. They’re protectors.”

 

“I’m sure that is the very definition of a babysitter,” Scott laughs.

 

“Rob was always a little misguided. He  _needs_  Vanessa. So just…” Chester trails off.

 

Scott stares at him blankly.

 

“Please don’t hurt her. Okay? I know you hate them but she’s not like the others. She isn’t preaching. She’s kind, she loves Rob.”

 

Scott continues to stare blankly, “Why would I hurt her, Chester? She hasn’t given me any reason to.”

 

“Just don’t.” Chester snaps, angrily. Worried, now, for Vanessa.

 

Usually Chester wouldn’t stand up against Scott. Usually the voice in his head would placate him. But right now he’s angry. Angry on behalf of all the Angels he has ever met who have probably been hurt by the wrath of Lucifer. He stares into Scott’s eyes, trying to prove that he means it, trying to come across as a threat.

 

He turns on his heel, opens the door and slams it behind him as he leaves.

 

***

 

Jeff calls Chester’s cell phone as he walks down the hall toward the green room. He digs it out of his pocket and thumbs the call button, “Hello?”

 

“Hi, Chester, where are you?”

 

“Just on my way to the green room. Why?”

 

“I just want to go over the set list for tonight with you guys. I’ve made a couple of changes just to mix things up a bit and I thought we could talk about it.”

 

Great. Another set list change. Chester doesn’t know why Jeff doesn’t just leave it alone since it was fine to begin with. “Okay,” he says, “where are you?”

 

“I’m on the stage. Meet you guys there?”

 

“Sure,” Chester says, hanging up on him without saying goodbye. When he reaches the green room Rob and Vanessa are curled up on one couch with Joe and Mike sitting on the other opposite them. Brad and Dave are standing in the centre of the room trying to juggle various different kinds of fruit.

 

Brad throws an orange into the air followed by a red apple and then a green apple. He’s pretty good and is standing stock still as he juggles, unlike Dave who is staggering around trying to catch the fruit before they hit the ground.

 

Chester steps into the room and laughs, “You should have gone to clown college, Bradface.”

 

Brad loses his concentration and lets an apple drop. It bounces a little then rolls under a table. He reaches out wide to his left to grab the other one and leans back, catching the orange from the air before it hits him on the head.

 

“And you should have gone to creeping Jesus college.” Brad scowls, putting the apple and orange back in the bowl on the table which is covered in snack food for after the show but most of it has already been eaten.

 

Chester rolls his eyes, “Sorry, Bozo. Jeff wants us all on stage now. He changed the set list.”

 

Mike sits up and frowns, “Again?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That’s such bullshit,” Dave snaps, dumping his fruit in the bowl too.

 

Chester shrugs, smiling as Brad comes up behind him, looping his arms around his waist and kissing his neck saying, “Don’t shoot the messenger. It’s not Chester’s fault Jeff likes to, you know, change everything every five minutes.”

 

Rob sighs, kisses Vanessa’s cheek. “We could be a while,” he says to her, “Do you want to stay?”

 

She smiles her disarming smile and shakes her head, “I think I’ll head back to the hotel and take a bath. But I’ll be back in time for your show okay? I’m really excited to see you all perform.”

 

“Cool. I’ll walk you to the car, yeah?”

 

She nods and they get up, heading out of the room. The others follow, heading towards the stage where Jeff is waiting for them.

 

***

 

They argue for an hour, maybe more. Mostly it’s Mike doing the arguing and Jeff trying to calm him the fuck down. Chester isn’t exactly over the moon that they have yet  _another_  new set list to remember but it’s really not the big deal Mike is making it into.

 

He can see Jeff’s point, too. This part of their careers is important – there are critics to impress, as there always will be, but they’re watching closely right now to see if Linkin Park are even worth writing about in their magazines or reporting about on their stations. It is important to switch things around every now and again in case a critic comes to more than one show.

 

Still, Mike thinks that Jeff is just making it harder for them. To which Jeff said, “Mike you’ve been rehearsing and performing these songs for a long time now, I think you’ll be able to cope with a change of line up. I know you’re not  _that_  retarded.”

 

It was the first time Jeff had ever insulted Mike like that. Sometimes it was obvious he was dying to say something like it but never did, kept his little comments to himself. But once it came out of his mouth Brad and Chester couldn’t stop laughing.

 

Mike glared at them both and stormed off the stage, slamming his way through the wings and backstage until there was nothing but the sound of the light technicians discussing something, bent over and concentrating at the light and sound desk at the back.

 

Jeff heaves a sigh and shrugs, “Does anybody else have a big problem with the set list?”

 

Nobody says anything then all at once they say, “No.”

 

“Really?”

 

Brad nods, “Yeah. Sure, we’ll have to remember it, but it’s not that big of a deal. I’m sure we can handle it.”

 

Jeff nods, gratefully, “Okay, go,” he says, waving them away, “chill out for a couple of hours. Get Mike some coffee or sugar or whatever it is he is lacking at the minute and be prepared to give one  _hell_  of a show tonight.”

 

They nod and leave the stage obediently. Brad laces his fingers with Chester’s as they walk back to the dressing room, “Do you think Mike has his period?”

 

Chester laughs, “Yeah probably,” he says. “I think he’s just really worried that with having to concentrate on a new set list we’ll not perform to the best of our ability. I don’t know how dumb he thinks we are since the damned thing will be taped to the floor in front of us for the entire show.”

 

The pair of them head to the dressing room whilst the others go on to the green room, wanting some time to themselves. “I’ve been thinking,” Brad says, “about our wedding.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Chester beams as they both sink into the leather couch, curling up against one another.

 

“Yeah. I was thinking, we could maybe have it on the beach. What do you think? It’d be summer, obviously, and everybody would be there.”

 

“I think it’s  _everybody’s_  dream to have their wedding on the beach.” Chester smiles dreamily.

 

“Oh. Do you think it’s too common?”

 

“No way! How many people actually do it? I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

 

Brad grins and leans in to kiss him softly. Chester wraps his arms around Brad’s neck as their lips meet and pulls him closer until they’re almost lying down. Their kisses grow in intensity and Chester moans lowly into Brad’s mouth, rolling his hips up against his lover’s and gasping at the almost electric contact.

 

Then his cell phone vibrates in his pocket, shocking them both. Brad laughs and pulls it out of his pocket for him, waving it in his face, “Who is it?” He asks, dipping his head to kiss Chester’s neck.

 

His vision is blurry but he can vaguely read ‘SCOTT WEILAND’ on the display which flashes with each ring.

 

“Don’t answer it,” Brad tells him.

 

Chester frowns at the phone and takes it, pushing Brad back a little, “I think something is wrong,” he says. He answers it, pressing it to his ear.

 

“Chester?” Scott says down the line, “You there?”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“For you to meet me.”

 

Chester frowns and meets Brad’s eyes, sharing a confused look, “What? Where?”

 

“Across the river,” Scott says, “Port de Tolbiac.” Then the line goes dead and Chester drops the phone from his ear.

 

“What does he want?”

 

“He wants me to meet him over the river in some port. I have a really bad feeling about this.” He does. Not just a gut feeling, but Scott’s voice in his head is laughing manically.

 

“You shouldn’t go,” Brad tells him, “not on your own.”

 

“You’re not coming with me.”

 

He gets up and grabs his coat, his hat and scarf from his wardrobe case and pulls them on quickly. Brad sits on the couch and watches, worried. He fidgets then gives in, getting to his feet and standing directly in front of Chester, “You’re not going.”

 

Chester steps back, shivering under Brad’s determined glare. “Yes I am,” he says. “Something is really wrong. Lucifer won’t hurt me but he will hurt other people and if that’s what he’s up to I want to try and stop him.”

 

As Chester heads for the door Brad snaps, “You’re not Superman, you know.”

 

“No,” Chester says, “I’m not. I’m not as weak as him.”

 

Brad doesn’t need to know that it isn’t necessarily the truth, that Scott is Chester’s Kryptonite. He leaves, closing the door behind him and running out of the building.

 

***

 

He catches a cab to Port de Tolbiac and climbs out warily. He watches the cab pull away before he looks around. What he is faced with is an industrial area which has closed for the weekend and the whole place is eerie. The chill wind blows off the river and Chester shivers, digging his hands into his pockets.

 

His cell phone rings and he fumbles to pull it out of his jeans and answer it.

 

“Are you here?” Scott asks.

 

“Yeah. Yeah. What the fuck is going on, Scott?”

 

“There is a warehouse with a rusty hole in the roof and a Star of David on the sign.”

 

Chester looks around, breathing heavily, panicking. He spots the building, the hole in the roof, the painted star. He doesn’t say anything into the phone.

 

“We’re behind there. See you soon.” Scott says and hangs up on him.

 

We? Who is we?

 

Chester breaks into a run, almost tripping and falling more than once on loose gravel and scrap metal littering the ground. The building doesn’t seem to get any closer no matter how fast he runs. Eventually he gets there and he races around the corner.

 

Stops dead in his tracks, frozen.

 

There is a metal fence that probably once surrounded the warehouse but now only lines one side of it. The top is decorated with rusty razor wire which plastic bags and other rubbish has snagged on and now flap in the winter breeze.

 

And there is Scott, standing with a sick smirk on his face.

 

And chained to the fence, like Christ on the cross, is Vanessa, her head lolling against her chest and her hair falling in a golden curtain around her face. Her wings are matted with blood and dirt.

 

Chester rushes forward and tugs on the chains that bind her to the fence but they’re tight, stronger than he could ever hope to be. He turns to face Scott and screams, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! I told you not to hurt her!”

 

Scott smirks and pushes Chester away forcefully when he tries again to free the Angel on the fence. “Did you think I was really going to listen to you?” He asks, “Vanessa here told me all about Rob’s little drinking problem, the drug addictions. Don’t you think it would be fun to see him fall into that little pit again?”

 

He walks away, leaving Chester to try again to tug at the chains. Vanessa’s chest rises and falls slowly, her breaths giving Chester a little hope that she’ll survive. She’ll be okay.

 

But then Scott comes back, a plastic tank in his hand weighing him down. He unscrews the cap and throws it over the fence. It lands somewhere in the distance with a tiny rattle.

 

”What are you doing?”

 

“Move out of my way.”

 

“No.”

 

Scott puts down the tank and shoves Chester hard. He staggers back and hits the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. He tries to breathe as he watches Scott lift the tank again, pouring the liquid inside onto Vanessa’s wings one at a time. He then places the tank down carefully.

 

Chester struggles to his feet but Scott glares at him and the voice in his head takes over completely the way it did with Kahlen, with Adam on the rooftop, and he freezes. Stands still and watches Scott pick a pack of matches out of his pocket, shaking them in Vanessa’s face before pulling one out and lighting it.

 

He throws the lit match at her right wing, lighting another and throwing it at her left. The heady smell of gas fills the air, the smell of burning feathers.

 

Vanessa comes to with a scream of complete agony. She fights against the chains as the flames lick at her hands and arms. She looks over at Chester, cries out to him desperately.

 

“Please!” She screams, “Please Chester please help me. Ignore him, ignore what he’s t-told you to do!”

 

The fire ignites her hair and she sobs desperately. The smell of burning flesh assaults Chester’s senses as her cries grow in agony.

 

“Shut  _up_  you silly bitch!” Scott snaps, “Jesus didn’t bitch and moan like this. We’re just teaching you a little lesson. Not everybody wants to be helped.”

 

Her cries are deafening but Chester can’t move, the voices in his head keeping him rooted to the spot. He watches as the fire eats away at her clothes slowly.

 

“Chester!” She wails, her eyes closed in pain as the fire burns her skin, blistering it and peeling it away from her bones. Her wings are nothing but stumps now, charred feathers clinging stubbornly to the spines of them.

 

Scott growls as she cries out again, “You know, you’re pretty hot.” He laughs to himself, glances at Chester, “Hot! Get it? Hot as in, you know…” he picks up the tank of gas again and throws it at her. The fire meets with the gas and it explodes, throwing Scott back onto the ground. Chester stands, un-phased.

 

The fire dies down eventually when there is nothing left to burn. Vanessa is dead. And Chester finally steps forward. Somehow his strength is renewed and he is able to undo the chains that hold her to the fence, holding out his arms to catch her body as it falls like a rag doll.

 

Scott picks himself off the ground and dusts himself down, laughing. “Wasn’t that  _awesome_? Like Joan of Arc.”

 

Chester says nothing. He walks away from Scott with the dead Angel in his arms. He carries her body to the edge of the river and stares down into it as the hidden tides ebb and flow. He takes a breath and throws her into the water. The splash she makes is tiny, and she sinks straight away.

 

Scott comes to stand behind him, looping an arm around his waist. “Good boy,” He says. “Now you aren’t going to tell anybody about this are you?”

 

Chester shakes is head.

 

“You’ll not tell Brad, or Rob. You’ll go back to the arena, you’ll perform your set, you’ll not let on that she’s dead, right?”

 

Chester shakes his head again, “I’ll not let on,” he says, smiling.

 

Scott claps him on the back and laughs, “Good.” He says, “Good boy.”

 


	14. Fourteen

When he returns to the venue he showers straight away and gets dressed in the clothes he plans to wear for the show. A white shirt with torn sleeves and a big black cross stitched onto the back and black jeans with a studded belt. He is busy drying his hair with a towel when Brad enters the room.

 

“Where have you been?! Jesus, I was so worried.”

 

Chester turns around and smiles, “My name isn’t Jesus,” he says.

 

“Shut up. So what was the big problem, what happened?”

 

Chester sighs and dumps the towel, grabbing the hairdryer from his bag and plugging it in. He takes a seat and gestures for Brad to sit down beside him. “It was nothing,” he lies easily. “He was at some abandoned warehouse when I got there and he gave me a big lecture about how humans are scum and all the rest of it then I left before he could even finish.”

 

“That was it?”

 

“Yeah. He might have had some grand finale planned but I didn’t care enough to hang around and find out.” He leans in, kisses Brad’s cheek, “I should have called when I got back but I was  _desperate_  for a shower. The docks stink like burning so my clothes do too.”

 

Brad nods, happy with the explanation, “Want me to dry your hair?”

 

Chester grins, “Yes please.” He hands Brad the hair dryer and turns so his back is to him. Brad runs his fingers through his short hair and turns on the hair dryer, the hot air sending a shiver down the Angel’s spine.

 

Even over the blast of the hairdryer they can both hear Scott stomping around outside screaming, “Who the fuck has my hat? I’ve already fucking warned you assholes.”

 

Chester sniggers, “What a diva.”

 

Brad can’t stop laughing, he tries his hardest to concentrate on drying Chester’s hair and manages to hold it together until he’s done and the hair dryer is switched off before laughing. “I stole it.”

 

Chester glares at him in the mirror, “You have to be kidding.”

 

“Nope. I stole it after he made those snide comments about us getting engaged. It’s in a dumpster out back somewhere.” Brad grins proudly.

 

“Are you kidding?!”

 

Brad frowns, “Calm down, Ches’, it’s just a joke.”

 

“Oh yeah, joking with Lucifer, there’s a good idea.” He gets up and grabs a pot of gel from his bag, sitting back in front of the mirror and styling his hair into perfect little quills. He doesn’t even look at Brad, doesn’t let on how worried he is.

 

Or how he can’t get Vanessa’s anguished cries out of his head.

 

Brad sighs and leaves the room. He knows Chester is just worried but his good mood is somewhat diminished now. He heads outside to the dumpster he left Scott’s hat in. He lifts the lid and curls his nose in disgust at the smell. The hat is still there, lying atop a bag of…something. He lifts it out.

 

It’s clean. It smells a little, but it’s clean. He closes the dumpster and turns around slipping back through the fire escape and toward Velvet Revolver’s dressing room. He plans to throw it into the room and run as fast as he can away from the scene. But before he even reaches the room he walks straight into Scott who stares at him down his nose.

 

Brad smiles nervously, “I found your hat,” he says sheepishly, holding it out for Scott to take.

 

He snatches it from Brad’s hands and smiles widely, “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you  _very_  much.” He shoves Brad out of his way and walks down the corridor, disappearing out of sight.

 

The sound check is almost over and their set is about to start. Chester catches him just as he grabs his guitar from the technician and whispers, “Did you give it back?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah he has it. He even thanked me.”

 

“I think he was probably being sarcastic, Brad.”

 

Brad rolls his eyes, “Calm down,” he says, “I’m fine. Scott is fine. You’re fine. In fact, you’re mighty fine.

 

Chester pushes away Brad’s hands as they creep under his shirt, “Stop it. Just don’t do anything stupid like that again, okay?”

 

Brad blinks.

 

Chester glares, “Okay?!”

 

“Okay! Okay, okay, I’ll not do anything like that again.” He kisses Chester’s cheek, trying to placate him.

 

Chester smiles faintly and takes a deep breath when the sound techs leave the stage.

 

Show time.

 

***

 

They run onto the stage the way they usually do. Rob and Joe come out first, then Dave bounds out with his bass followed by Brad with his guitar. Then Mike and Chester follow them all out, thanking everybody for coming. Usually a group of people pressed against the barrier will cheer and yell when they come out, waving their arms like crazy. This is their tiny, ten-man fan club who follow them everywhere.

 

Now, though, in a whole new country with nobody to have really heard of them they’d all expected for the crowd to watch politely, clap when appropriate and go back to waiting for Velvet Revolver’s set to start. But they were wrong.

 

The crowd go wild when they step out onto the stage and as far as the eye can see are people jumping and cheering and screaming and waving banners. Chester blinks twice, scrubs at his eyes. He was pretty sure this was Velvet Revolver’s headlining tour, but with an audience acting like this it could very well be Linkin Park’s.

 

They open with  _Crawling_  and the crowd scream like it is their all time favourite song. If Mike even notices their reaction he doesn’t seem phased by it. Chester glances at Brad as they tear into the final chorus and they share a look of confusion, worry.

 

Something is wrong.

 

Before they even begin the next song the crowd toward the front begin to riot. It isn’t a mosh pit like the band are usually used to seeing, this is a riot. Boys punching girls and girls biting girls and shoving to get to the barrier at the front.

 

But Rob counts them into  _Pushing Me Away_  regardless. The show must go on. Or something like that. “I’ve lied to you,” Chester sings, “the same way that I always do.”

 

The rioting spreads further into the crowd, people from the middle pushing forward hard, shoving people out of the way. Chester watches helplessly as the fans at the front of the barrier are crushed harder and harder with every passing second. The venue security are going crazy trying to help people out and away from the front and Chester pales when he sees them carry a girl away in their arms, her face nothing but a bloody mess.

 

Crushed to death.

 

More and more of the people lifted from the crowd are nothing but lifeless rag dolls and as they move onto the next song Chester’s eyes catch a flash of teeth, long, sharp razor teeth as one girl bites hard into the neck of the boy in front of her, tearing out his throat.

 

Everybody around them is showered with blood like somebody set off the sprinkler system. And as the blood rains down on them they clamour towards the falling body of the boy, tearing him apart.

 

It’s a massacre.

 

Dave trips backwards as a boy in front of him in the pit punches another boy in the face repeatedly then grabs a handful of his long, black hair and slams his head down into the barrier, the crack almost audible over the music.

 

He glances across the stage to Chester, his eyes wide with fear. Chester stops singing and stands, staring at the audience. They don’t stop, fists flying and dead bodies being crowd surfed to the front where they are thrown over the barrier. The police are here, now, aiding the security as best they can.

 

Pepper spray, threats of violence. Nothing works. Jeff yells to them all from the wings, demanding that they get off the stage, that the roadies have loaded their things onto the bus, that they’re leaving.

 

Chester follows Brad off the stage with the others in tow behind them. Backstage is a rabble of people desperately packing equipment into cases. Chester sees Slash helping the guitar technicians and Matt helping the sound techs.

 

Mike glances back over his shoulder to Chester, raising an eyebrow, “Come on dude, we have to go.”

 

Chester glances around desperately trying to pick out Brad amongst the people but he can’t. He shoves past Mike, looking for Scott now too.

 

“Where’s Brad?” He asks Jeff who is yammering urgently into his cell phone.

 

Jeff shrugs and points to the dressing room with a questioning expression before going back to yelling down the line to someone at Warner HQ.

 

Chester rushes to their dressing room, cursing under his breath when he finds it empty. He then races to Velvet Revolver’s dressing room, bursting through the door. Dave, their guitarist, is busy zipping up his back pack and glances up when Chester walks in.

 

“Have you seen Scott?” He pants.

 

Dave shakes his head, “Nah. But if you catch him tell him he’s wanted on the bus pronto.”

 

Chester nods absently and runs outside. Roadies are standing outside in the cold waiting for the others so that they can drive them all back to the hotel. Chester approaches them, “I need keys,” he says, his eyes wild. He doesn’t doubt for one second that he looks completely insane. “I need to borrow the car.”

 

“What for?” The roadie asks, stops rolling his cigarette long enough to look up.

 

“I just need to. Look, I’ll pay you, okay? But later. Right now I need the fucking keys.”

 

The roadie nods, pulls the car keys from his pocket and points with them to the black van closest to them, “That one right there. She’s a rental though, so be careful with her.”

 

Chester snatches the keys from his hands and runs full pelt toward the van, fumbling to open it and climbing inside. He stabs the key into the ignition and puts it into drive. Thank god for automatics since he’s only ever driven once in his life and that was Brad’s car without his permission and he almost burned the gear box out.

 

He pulls out of the parking lot and out onto the main road, speeding in the direction the cab took him earlier. Towards the port.

 

***

 

The nails through his palms hurt more than anything he has ever experienced. He breathes deeply, shakily, through his nose. His teeth bite his bottom lip until it is raw and bleeding just like almost every other part of his body. The wooden cross is rough, splinters stabbing into his skin with every movement made.

 

Lucifer had caught him backstage as he made for the dressing room. power and hate radiating off him. He stood frozen to the spot till the light bulbs flared and exploded, then he was up here. The fallen Angel raised the cross with inhuman strength and lightning flashes high above as he circles the cross slowly admiring his work. Brad barely notices the first raindrops hit his face as the nails tear through bone and muscle. But they hold.

 

The hole in the roof of the warehouse lets the cold wind in and, naked, Brad can barely breathe for the cold. Still, he spits blood toward where Lucifer stands, “Father, forgive him; for he knows not what he does.”

 

Lucifer laughs hollowly and steps closer, “Ah yeah, Luke, twenty three: twenty four. Trust me though, you’re  _not_ Jesus.”

 

He grabs the rusted nails from the pile below the cross and the hammer, grabs Brad’s foot roughly in one hand and drives the nail through it.

 

Brad’s scream rips his throat raw until he can’t scream anymore. When Lucifer grabs his other foot and hammers in the second nail he sobs brokenly, tears washing away the blood that has trickled from the wound on his head to his face.

 

“Skin for skin!” Lucifer laughs, tipping his head back and howling. “Oh my god I love the bible. Let me think,” He cups his chin and strokes an imaginary beard. “Oh yeah. ‘A man will give all he has for his own life.’” He says, quoting Job.

 

Brad is woozy from blood loss, almost delirious from pain. He is terrified of closing his eyes in case he doesn’t wake up again. He thinks back to bible study at school before he told his teacher he was Jewish and not particularly interested in any of the crap they were learning.

 

“Away from me, Satan. For it is written: 'Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.’”

 

Lucifer laughs, “I hate the name Satan. It’s so angry. Last time I checked the only God you served was Chester Bennington, son of nobody special, Angel of Los Angeles.”

 

He picks up what looks like a whip from the ground. The handle is the size of a baseball bat but in place of the leather throngs there is a length of razor wire, cut from the top of the fence outside.

 

Brad closes his eyes and sobs. He’s going to die here, he just knows it. Lucifer sniggers and lashes the whip at him, the razors slashing deep into his chest and abdomen. The pain is like white hot fire, like being burned by the sun. Lucifer whips him again and this time Brad vomits, the entire contents of his stomach mixed with blood.

 

Lucifer curls his nose in disgust, “You’re fucking terrible, did you know that? I can’t think of one reason why Chester even goes near you. All humans are scum. And since he fell to Earth Chester is no better.”

 

Brad groans, puke and spit and blood dripping from his face to the dirty ground below him.

 

“Oh! Didn’t he tell you he has killed? You know Kahlen? The girl who tattooed his flames? He made it look like she’d killed herself but he talked her into it, he broke open the razor and handed her the blade. And then another time he met this kid in a bar, Adam or something. He beat him to death and threw him off a building.”

 

“Cuz of you.” Brad mumbles. He is fighting to stay conscious as the wind blows again, whistling through the opening in the roof. From here he can see the Star of David on the sign of the warehouse.

 

“Only  _partly_  because of me,” Lucifer smiles proudly, running his fingers over the razor wire and lapping the blood from the wounds. He stands directly below Brad and nuzzles his thigh. “Poor you. You have no idea what he is capable of. You know Vanessa? Rob’s bitch? Well, she’s dead too. He just stood there and watched her burn.”

 

No. It’s not true.

 

“Yeah. She smelled like KFC.” Lucifer steps back and grins like a Cheshire cat, he puts a finger in his mouth, sucks hard and pulls it out with a satisfied grin, “Finger lickin’ good.”

 

Brad takes a deep breath and tries to lift his head, “Y-you know the part a-after Jesus tells you to fuck off and die? Th-that there’s only one Lord?”

 

Lucifer stares at him, crosses his arms over his chest impatiently. “What about it?”

 

“Do you know w-what happens? Satan l-leaves a-and the Angels help Jesus.”

 

“Yeah,” Lucifer sighs dreamily, “that’d sure be lovely for you. But you’re not Jesus. And the only Angel here is  _me._ ” His wings appear behind him and block out the light coming in through the ill fitting doors from the floodlights at the dock.

 

Brad wishes it were all over. He wishes Lucifer would just get bored, just leave him alone. Or let him die.

 

Anything.

 

He closes his eyes, letting his head fall to his chest. The pain in his hands and feet dull to nothing but an ache and Lucifer’s voice becomes nothing but the soft lull of a bed time story, it’s his mom reading him to sleep and he’s four years old and he’s happy.

 

He’s happy.

 

He dreams of his wedding to Chester, they’re on the beach and they’re smiling for the camera as the photographer takes their photograph. They’re thanking people. They’re kissing. There is nothing but the sound of the ocean gently lapping at the shore and the angry scrape of metal on concrete as the warehouse doors are pulled open.

 

The walk barefoot along the beach, hands nailed together. They’re walking on glass and laughing about their plans for the honey moon. Ahead of them on the beach is a blinding white light with two figures in front of it, both silhouettes with magnificent wings arching behind them.

 

One figure says to the other, “You’re just in time for the grand finale!” He laughs manically. Chester, in his dream, he turns to him and claws at Brad’s chest with razor sharp finger nails, tearing opening his wedding suit and his skin, blood soaking through the expensive clothing.

 

Then Chester yells right in his face, “Leave him the fuck alone! Get him down from there.”

 

Brad thinks, down from where? I think you’ve had too much champagne, dude.

 

The figure at the end of the beach snarls, “Why the fuck would I want to do that? He needs to be taught a lesson!”

 

The claws tear at Brad’s chest again but the pain feels far away, like it isn’t really happening. Which he supposes is true; after all, this is all just a dream.

 

Chester glares at him, digging his toes deep into the sand angrily. “Because he stole your hat? He stole your hat so you  _crucified him_?”

 

“He’s a fucking parasite!” The figure cries out, “I’m putting him where he belongs”

 

“You’re  _insane_!” Chester yells back. He gets to his knees in front of Brad on the sand and grabs his thighs gently, shaking him.

 

Brad laughs, what are you doing you psycho?

 

“Brad? Brad talk to me. Come on. Snap out of it Brad, come on!”

 

Brad frowns, what do you mean?

 

Chester is sobbing now, hysterical and terrified, “ _Brad_!”

 

“Ches’…”

 

They’re not on the beach. They’re not married. The dream disappears in a flash of pain as Chester tugs on one of the nails through his feet. They’re in the freezing cold warehouse on a riverbank in France.

 

They’re in a lot of trouble.

 

Lucifer growls and drags Chester away from the cross angrily, “Get the fuck away from there,” he says. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

 

Chester fights against the voice in his head, the one telling him to grab the hammer, to smash the head of it into Brad’s shins, his knees. His head hurts like a bullet has torn through it and he doubles over, clutching desperately at his hair.  _Go on_ , the voice in his head says,  _just do it already. He deserves it. He never loved you. He’s a human. How could he?_

 

Brad tries to lift his head to see Chester, tries to speak but all that comes out is, “Ches’? Ches’, m’cold.”

 

Brad’s voice permeates his thoughts and Chester snaps out of it, the voice becoming nothing but an angry whisper at the back of his mind like a nagging headache. He straightens up and steps toward the cross but Lucifer grabs him, shoving him back hard, “I told you to get the fuck away!” He yells.

 

He picks up the razor wire again and whips it down at where Chester lies, stricken. The Angel is quicker than Lucifer, though, and rolls away. The razor wire hits his wing and he cries out in pain, getting to his feet and jumping back before Lucifer cracks the whip again.

 

“Why don’t you just give it up,  _human_?” Lucifer sneers, “You’ll never win this and you know it. And since Hell is the one in power that’s where you two fucking pigs are going when I kill you both.”

 

Chester jumps back again, dodging the whip as it cracks down again. The river isn’t far away from him, soon he’ll have nowhere to go but down into the dirty water where Vanessa’s body has been dumped. He sidesteps quickly, trying to get away from the edge but trips over and falls with an, “Oomph.”

 

Lucifer stands over him, clutching the whip in one hand, the other planted firmly on his hip. He smiles down at Chester. He looks accomplished. “I thought I could teach you,” he says sadly, shaking is head. “I thought you would have learned by now not to mess with me. That humans are not worth saving. They are toxic waste, Chester. You should just let them rot.”

 

“They’re not all like that,” Chester hisses defiantly. “I’ve made friends since I left Heaven. You may not like humans but that’s probably just because they don’t like you. Nobody wants you anywhere Lu! You’re nothing but a big bully.” He laughs quietly to himself, “You’re a bully. And you think you can justify everything you do by saying humans deserve it. Well, I’m here to tell you that they fucking  _don’t_.”

 

Lucifer grits his teeth furiously and raises the whip from his side. Chester closes his eyes and covers his face with his hands, awaiting the pain that is sure to come.

 

But it doesn’t, and all that he can hear is Lucifer’s angry cries.

 

Chester opens his eyes and sits up.

 

Angels. There are other Angels.

 

He gets to his feet and stares in disbelief. Michael, Gabriel and Raphael, the Archangels. The ones Chester never spoke to in Heaven. The ones he thought had forgotten about Earth all together. They have Lucifer surrounded and he bares his teeth at them.

 

“Oh fuck you, Michael,” he says. “Do you think I’m scared of you?”

 

Michael laughs, “You were once. Back when you were one of us. Looks like nothing has changed – you’re still betraying everybody around you.”

 

Lucifer glares for a long moment before spitting in Michael’s face and smirking arrogantly. The Archangel grows and grabs Lucifer by the throat, pushing him backwards angrily toward the side of the warehouse. He hits it with an empty thud and a choked cry.

 

“What are you even doing here?” Lucifer spits out.

 

“Did you think we weren’t watching this whole time?”

 

Lucifer laughs, “Then what took you so fucking long?”

 

Michael smirks, “I didn’t think it would come to this,” he says, “I didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to kill a Guardian Angel. I didn’t think you’d pull this shit and neither did  _your_  guys.”

 

And Lucifer, he just smiles with a dangerous glint in his eyes, kisses Michael’s cheek, “Well Mikey, you don’t know me at all, do you?”

 

Chester stands staring, watching as Michael puts his face close to Lucifer’s threateningly. Then he takes off, racing back into the warehouse to where Brad is still on the cross floating in and out of consciousness.

 

“This is going to hurt, Bradface,” he whispers soothingly as he grabs one of the nails and tugs. Brad whimpers but nothing more. Chester grabs the other, pulling it out.

 

“Need a hand?”

 

Chester turns to face Gabriel and nods quickly, “Yeah. Can you lift me? I need to…the nails in his hands…”

 

Gabriel nods and crouches down in front of the cross, his wings disappearing. “Get on my shoulders,” he says, “I’ll help you up.”

 

Chester obeys, climbing onto the Archangel’s shoulders. He holds his breath as Gabriel straightens up and he wobbles a little, almost falls. He grips Chester’s legs tightly, though, and holds him steady as he pulls out one nail, dropping it to the floor and pulling out the other.

 

He jumps down, his feet hitting the ground not a second too soon. Brad falls from the cross and slumps into Chester’s open arms. He lowers himself and Brad to the ground, cradling his head in his lap and running a soothing hand through his hair.

 

Chester doesn’t even notice that he is crying until a tear drops to mix with the blood all over Brad’s face. He sniffs back more tears and kisses Brad’s forehead, “Please wake up,” he whispers, “I’ll die without you.”

 

Gabriel walks outside, leaving them there, only to return with Raphael who is arguing with him quietly, “I’m not supposed to,” Raphael says. “You know I’m not supposed to.”

 

Gabriel frowns at him, shoves him forward, “Stop being an asshole and help him. It isn’t time for him to go yet so fuck the rules, okay?”

 

With a grumble Raphael gets to his knees beside Brad and Chester and sighs, “If I get fired, Gabriel, I’m letting the idiots in charge know that this was your idea.”

 

“Shut up and fucking heal him.” Gabriel snaps, heading back outside to help Michael.

 

Chester looks up into Raphael’s eyes desperately, continuing to stroke Brad’s hair, “Can you help him?”

 

Raphael nods and frowns. He places his hands over Brad’s chest where his heart is and closes his eyes.

 

All around them the world goes dark. The people of Paris will just assume it is a power cut. Those who notice that their cell phones have stopped working and all battery operated gadgets have died too will attribute it to the meteor shower which is due tonight.

 

Below Raphael’s hands a light as bright as the sun shines, it passes through Brad’s body, trailing through his veins and his organs. The stigmata marks on his hands heal slowly, as do the ones on his feet, leaving tiny scars. The wound on his head closes up and the gaping cuts from the razor wire disappear without a trace.

 

The light goes out.

 

The power everywhere comes back on.

 

And Brad gasps for air.

 

Raphael sits back, resting his weight on his hands and breathing deeply in time with Brad who sits up, clawing at Chester’s shirt, his hair, grabbing and holding onto him. Chester holds him tightly, protectively, as he sobs against his chest.

 

Michael and Gabriel march back into the warehouse. Each Archangel slips off his jacket and drapes it over Brad to keep him warm. And the five of them stay there for a long time, huddled together on the dirty ground. Nothing to be heard but the sounds of Brad’s broken sobs.

 

***

 

As for Lucifer; outside the hanger Michael smiled at him, clapped him on the back. “It’s been good seeing you again, Lucifer.” He said.

 

The Archangel clicked his fingers and Lucifer’s wings went up in flames. The pain he felt was probably excruciating, but Michael had taken his voice.

 

His feathers burned and disappeared, leaving him with nothing.

 

“You’re human,” Michael said. “You’re the same as all of the people you have ever hurt. But you can never tell anybody about it. Nobody will ever know. Your band will kick you out. Your record company will fire you. And eventually, you’ll die.” He smirked, “And I hope it hurts.”

 

He grabbed Lucifer’s hand and dragged him to the edge of the dock, “I hope you can swim,” he said as he shoved him into the dirty water roughly.

 

In the warehouse he tells Chester to call the police, tell them that Scott did it. If they do DNA tests there are traces of him all over Brad’s body. They’ll hunt him down and they’ll arrest him. That’s if he doesn’t die from the cold, first.

 

Rob Bourdon is called to the morgue in Paris the next day and has to identify Vanessa’s body. The band agrees to postpone a few dates so that Rob can fly her body home for her funeral, so he can mourn.

 

At Vanessa’s wake there is no alcohol. And for a year Rob stays clean. But on the anniversary of her death he can’t breathe. He goes to the bedroom with a bottle of vodka and sleeping pills, leaving behind a note saying he has to be with Vanessa.

 

Mike sobs bitching about the fact that there is no afterlife, that he’s not going to be with anyone. Chester comforts him and doesn’t tell him that Rob and Vanessa are most certainly in Heaven.

 

But right now, in the warehouse, Chester turns his head to look out through the hole in the roof.

 

Outside the night sky is lit by the meteors that shot through space a million years ago.

 

Like Angels falling from Heaven.

**The End.**


End file.
